Collected   Poems 


Grace  Denio  Litchfield 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 
fmfcfcerbocfcet    press 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913 

BY 
GRACE    DENIO    LITCHFIELD 


Ube  Ifcnfcfeerbocfoer  press,  mew  J2orfc 


DEDICATION 

The  bird  gives  its  songs  to  the  day, 

The  blossom  its  bloom  to  the  sky, 
The  fountain  out- tosses  its  spray 

As  a  call  to  the  cloud  that  goes  by. 
The  star  on  its  glimmering  path 

Pays  toll  to  the  sovereign  night 
Of  the  uttermost  good  that  it  hath, 

In  a  tribute  of  tremulous  light. 

What  though  the  bird's  carol  be  faint, 

The  blossom  be  naught  but  a  weed, 
And  the  garb  of  the  fountain  be  quaint, 

And  the  heavens  too  distant  to  heed? 
What  though  the  wan  gleam  of  the  star 

Be  lost  in  the  fulness  of  day? 
Evermore  to  the  power  afar 

Each  offers  the  thing  that  it  may. 

So  I,  like  the  star  and  the  fount, 

The  reiterant  bird  and  the  flower, 
Telling  o'er  the  inadequate  count 

Of  the  fruits  of  my  harvesting  hour, 
Fain  to  glean  what  I  may  from  its  store 

Before  the  brief  reaping-time  ends, 
With  a  sigh  that  the  gift  be  no  more, 

Lay  my  sheaf  at  the  feet  of  my  friends. 


111 


Of  the  poems  included  in  this  volume,  all  save 
a  few  of  the  shorter  ones  have  already  appeared 
in  separate  editions  from  time  to  time  since  the 
year  1895,  when  under  the  collective  title  of 
Mimosa  Leaves  the  lyrics  were  first  issued  in  book 
form.  These  various  publications,  with  some 
trifling  omissions  from  their  pages,  are  here 
offered  to  the  public  as  a  whole,  after  a  revision 
which,  however  careful,  remains  confessedly 
inadequate  to  their  needs,  yet  which  it  is  hoped 
may  plead  as  an  excuse  for  their  re-presentation. 

G.  D.  L. 

WASHINGTON, 
March,  1913. 


CONTENTS 

PRINCIPAL  POEMS. 

NARCISSUS i 

VITA,  AN  ALLEGORICAL  DRAMA      ...  33 

BALDUR  THE  BEAUTIFUL        .         ...  89 

THE  NUN  OF  KENT,  A  HISTORICAL  DRAMA    .  149 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

IN  MY  WINDOW-SEAT    .         .         .        .         .  241 

THE  SUNLIGHT      .         .         .         .        .         .  244 

To  A  ROSEBUD     .         .         »         .         .         .  245 

PAIN    .         ...         .         .         .         .  246 

DAY-DREAMS         .         .         .         .         .         .  248 

LOVE  SONG 250 

IN  THE  BEAUTIFUL        .         .         .         .         .251 

THE  MILKY  WAY 252 

THE  STORM-KING          .         .         .         .         .  254 

THE  DANCE.         .         .         .         .         .         .  257 

THE  BEGGAR 259 

THE  FOG      .         .         .         .         .         .         .  260 

ONE  SILENT  BIRD  AMID  A  THOUSAND  SINGING  261 

IN  THE  HOSPITAL  .         .         .         ;         .         .  262 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SUNRISE       ....  270 

MIDSUMMER          .         .         .                  .         .  272 

A  MYSTERY          .         .                  .        0  273 

SLEEP  .                         .....  275 

vii 


viii  Contents 

PAGE 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.— Continued. 

GOOD-BYE 277 

THE  SETTING  SUN 278 

To  A  HURT  CHILD        .         .         .         .         .  279 

I  CAN  NOT  KNEEL,  I  CAN  NOT  PRAY     .         .  280 
MOTHER,  MOTHER,  CAN  IT  BE      .         .         .281 

THE  POET-HEART          .         .         .         .         .  283 

MY  LETTER 285 

GOOD-NIGHT,  MOTHER           ..         .         .         .  286 

PAIN  WROUGHT     .         .         ...         .         •  288 

IN  LIFE'S  TUNNEL        .         ...         .         .  289 

SYMPATHY     .         ...       .         .         .         .  290 

WEDDED,  BUT  NOT  MATED    .         .         .         .291 

WHERE  AM  I  WHILE  I  SLEEP?      .         .         .  292 

HOPELESS     .         .         .                  ,         .         .  294 

AN  ENIGMA           .         .              .   •         .         •  295 

BETWEEN  THE  LINES     .....  296 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  CRICKET  .         .         .         .  297 

IN  THE  TEENS      ....         .         .  298 

THE  GIFT  OF  SONG       .         .         .         .         .  299 

SWEET  MOTHER  OF  MY  DREAMS    .         .         .  300 

COURAGE      .         .         .         .         .         .         .  3QI 

AN  AGNOSTIC        .  „    • 3°2 

To  A  WOUNDED  MOTH.         .         .         .         •  3°4 

LOVE  Now  .         ....         .         .  305 

LISTENING    .         .         .         .         .                   .  3°6 


Contents  ix 

PAGE 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.— Continued. 

FLOWERTIME  WEATHER          ....     307 

WERE  I  YON  STAR        .....     308 

MY  OTHER  ME    .         .         .         .  .     309 

THE  WAY  TO  BE  HAPPY       .        .        .         .311 

SWINGING     .         .         ...        .         .     312 

LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  .  .         .     314 

A  BIRTHDAY  SONG         .         .         .        .         .315 

RECOGNITION 317 

To  THE  CICADA  SEPTEMDECIM  .  .  .318 
THE  CLOSED  DOOR  .....  320 
A  DREAM  OF  HAPPINESS  .  .  .  .321 

ICARUS 322 

INTO  MY  LIFE  SHE  CAME      .        .        .        .    323 

LIKE  A  GARDEN  OF  MARVELLOUS  MIDSUMMER 
BLOOMS .     324 

CAGED. .  326 

MY  FRIEND 329 

IN  AN  ECLIPSE 330 

REMEMBRANCE 331 

SEMELE  .         .         .         ;         .  333 

THE  BEND  OF  THE  ROAD      ....  336 

THE  HIDDEN  BROOK     .....  337 

A  LAST  MESSAGE         .  .        .         .  338 

IN  THE  FORUM  OF  JUSTICE   .  .         .  339 

FATE 340 

To  MY  FATHER •       .  341 


Narcissus 


TO 

KATHARINE   DUMBELL 


Narcissus 

IN  days  whose  memory  the  heart  yet  stirs, 
As  when  at  passing  breeze  o'er  forest  firs 
The  whole  deep  wood  melodiously  thrills, 
There  lay  within  the  hollow  of  three  hills 
A  tiny  slumbering  lake.     Its  curved  edge, 
Beyond  the  whispering  rush  and  nodding  sedge, 
Was  cushioned  close  with  moss  more  silken  soft 
Than  the  enchanted  couch  whereon,  so  oft 
As  winter  slew  the  flowers,  Adonis  slept, 
Re-dreaming  spring  while  Aphrodite  wept. 
Oaks,  broad-limbed  as  Dodona's  magic  trees 
Or  sacred  groves  of  the  Eumenides, 
Arboured  the  sward,  their  branches,  dense  as 

those 

That  hid  the  blinded  exile  from  his  foes, 
So  blent  in  intertwinings  manifold 
That  when  noon  bathed  their  crests  with  fluent 

gold 

The  green  net  held  it  fast,  save  where  a  few 
Bright  drops,  some  loose  mesh  favouring,  broke 

through 

Upon  the  dusk,  as  once  on  Danae's  night 
The  god  of  all  rained  down  in  drops  of  light. 
5 


6  Narcissxis 

Under   dew-broidered   webs — each   morn   new- 
spun 

Fair  as  Penelope's  by  night  undone — 
Over  the  velvet  floor,  as  yet  untrod 
By  hoof  of  satyr  or  by  foot  of  god, 
A  myriad  small  things  crept  in  and  out, 
And  happy  little  sounds  were  all  about. 
White  moths  and  butterflies  on  rainbow  wings 
Crossed  and  recrossed  with  fan-like  flutterings. 
Bees  blundered  dizzily  from  blooms  to  blooms, 
Distraught    with    proffered    sweets.      Through 

drowsy  glooms 
Snakes  stretched  their  jewelled  lengths  in  lines  of 

light, 

Harmless  as  lizards.     In  the  leafy  height 
Above,  the  birds,  a  Bacchanalian  crew, 
Held  rapturous  carousal.     Drunk  with  dew, 
The  lark  forgot  to  soar.     The  nightingale 
Forgot  lost  Itylus  and  Procne's  tale, 
Forgot  all  else  but  love.     The  hunted  swallow 
Forgot  to  fly.     The  hawk  forgot  to  follow. 

Guarding  this  goodly  spot  three  peaks  rose  up, 
Enclosing  it  as  in  a  jacinth  cup 
Laid  o'er  with  emeralds.     Their  lifted  brows 
Were  first  to  signal  when  Tithonus'  spouse 
Stood  in  the  east  with  sleepy  lids  dropped  low, 
Were  last  to  let  the  golden  glory  go 
When,  at  day's  finish,  from  his  dazzling  car 
The  bright  god  leaned  and  flung  the  reins  afar 


Narciss-us  7 

From  off  his  smoking  steeds.     And  when  night 

fell 

Sable  and  silent  over  hill  and  dell, 
And  noiseless  through  the  iron  gates  and  through 
The  gates  of  ivory  false  dreams  and  true 
Stole  earthward,  while  old  Somnus  far  away 
Stirred  in  his  poppied  sleep  and  silence  lay 
Around  him  as  a  flame  lies  round  the  thing 
It  feeds  on,  through  the  darkness  towering — 
Near  neighbours  to  the  stars,  and  royally 
Invested  in  the  midnight's  majesty — 
Ossa  on  Pelion,  the  peaks  looked  down, 
Wearing  the  silver  moonlight  for  a  crown. 
And  when  in  anger  or  unholy  mirth 
Jove  loosed  his  blazing  tempests  on  the  earth, 
And  ^Eolus  at  his  great  lord's  command 
Sent  his  wild  brood  hallooing  up  the  land 
With  all  the  furies  following  in  their  track, 
The  peaks,  defiant,  hurled  Jove's  thunders  back 
And  met  his  bolts  unmoved. 

There  lay  the  lake, 

Green-cradled  between  banks  of  fern  and  brake, 
Crooned  to  by  mother-birds  the  whole  glad  day. 
Still  as  an  una wakened  soul  it  lay, 
As  slept  Endymion  beneath  the  moon 
When  Dian's  matchless  kiss  bequeathed  the  boon 
Of  dreams  immortal  and  immortal  youth 
Freed  evermore  from  touch  of  Time  and  Truth. 
Deep  were  its  waters,  and  as  crystal  clear 
As  on  child's  cheek  the  yet  unsalted  tear; 


8  Narcissus 

So  satin  smooth  the  radiance  of  its  face, 

The    shadows,    glancing,    seemed    to    hang   in 

space ; 

And  blue  it  was  as  blue  of  twilight  sky 
'Twixt   birdsong  time  and  startime,  when   on 

high 

Throbs  Hesperus,  a  sparkle  of  wet  gold — 
Eve's  single  gem,  caught  edgewise  in  a  fold 
Of  her  loose  robe— and  in  the  moment's  hush 
The  round,  full,  silver  flute  note  of  the  thrush 
Breaks  jubilant  upon  the  breathless  air, 
Calling  the  world  to  ecstasy  of  prayer. 

Nor  lore  nor  legend  yet  the  hollow  had, 
Its  haunts  unknown  to  nymph  or  oread. 
No  faun  with  pointed  ears  peeped  through  the 

trees : 

Among  the  reeds  no  Pan  piped  melodies. 
Fed  by  the  cool  inrush  of  mountain  streams, 
The  lake  lay  given  over  to  its  dreams, 
Dimpling  with  pleasure  when  light  summer  rains 
Danced  o'er  its  silvery  surface,  scarce  at  pains 
To  furrow  its  smooth  brow  when  harsh  winds 

blew 
And   high  overhead   the  screaming   storm-gulls 

flew. 

Serene  it  mirrored  all  it  knew  of  heaven — 
The  sun  by  day,  the  moon  and  stars  at  even; 
Or  if  no  light  was,  drew  the  darkness  down 
And  wore  it  like  a  cloak  of  eider-down, 


Narcissus  9 

Nested  as  nest  the  birds,  head  under  wing, 
Happy  and  sure,  dreading  not  anything. 

Hither,  one  day,  Narcissus  came,  chance-led, 

Tracing  a  truant  streamlet  to  its  bed. 

Deep  ran  the  indented  channel,  boulder-strewn, 

Athwart  a  tangled  forest  maze  unhewn 

Since  time  began.     Adown  it  dashed  the  brook : 

Now  leaped  the  rocks  and  high  above  outshook 

A  cloud  of  snow-white  plumes:  now  smoothed 

itself 

To  limpid  glass  beneath  a  granite  shelf: 
Now  slipped  impetuous  twin  banks  atween, 
A  tossing  ribbon,  spun  of  froth  and  sheen 
In  all  the  tints  that  Here's  messenger 
Flaunts  in  her  arching  veil  of  gossamer — 
Here  dappled  green  where  gracious  willows  grew : 
Here,  where  the  sky  laughed  down,  a  lucent  blue : 
And   here,   where   sunny   leaf -flecked   shallows 

spread, 

Amber  and  blended  browns,  with  glints  of  red 
From  Earth 's  bared  veins.     And  as  it  flowed,  it 

sang. 

The  forest  with  the  rippling  music  rang. 
Never  Pactolus  o'er  his  sands  of  gold 
More  merrily  his  yellow  waves  unrolled, 
Nor  sweeter  sang  Alpheus,  when  at  last, 
O'erta'en  and  conquered,  Arethusa  cast 
Her  lot  with  his.     So,  singing,  through  the  wood 
The  streamlet  ran,  proclaiming  life  is  good. 


io  Narcissxis 

Thus  lured  from  step  to  step,  charmed  ears  and 

eyes 

Full  fed  with  beauty,  on  his  high  emprise 
Narcissus  came.     As  toward  the  eternal  light, 
Divined  in  darkness  and  primeval  night, 
The  blind  grub  crawls,  dreaming  of  unknown 

wings — 

As  toward  the  restless  sea  the  river  springs, 
Albeit,  born  mid  solitary  snows, 
Nothing  it  kens  save  silence  and  repose — 
So,  led  by  a  dim  instinct  in  his  blood 
That  hungered  for  the  beautiful  and  good, 
Narcissus,  groping  through  the  actual,  sought 
A  vaguely  limned  ideal — at  best  caught 
No  more  than  fleeting  glimpse  of  his  desire 
Flashed  back  upon  him  like  the  phantom  fire 
Of  a  spent  meteor  upon  the  night, 
That,  flashing,  dies  and  leaves  a  trail  of  light 
As  if  a  god  had  passed.     An  alien 
He  moved  among  his  mocking  fellow-men, 
An  exile  in  a  human  wilderness, 
Lonely  with  the  enduring  loneliness 
Of  the  separate  moon,  uncompanied  in  heaven 
Save  for  the  clouds  that  cross  her  path,  wind- 
driven  : 

The  dark,  sad  moon,  though  girt  around  with  light : 
The  old,  cold  moon,  who  to  her  own  despite 
May  never,  be  it  to  her  nearest  lover, 
That  hidden  frozen  heart  of  hers  discover. 


Narcissus  II 

So  came  Narcissus  to  the  lonely  lake 
Among  the  isolating  hills,  awake 
Or  dreaming  scarce  he  knew,  so  rare  the  spot 
He  stumbled  on.     The  day  was  hushed  and  hot ; 
But  cool  and  odorous  the  dusky  place 
Received  him  in  its  balmy-armed  embrace, 
Wooing  to  rest  ere  yet  the  need  was.     Down 
He  cast  him  on  the  emerald  sod,  where  brown 
And  golden-lined  the  falling  shadows  lingered, 
Loath  to  be  gone.     Caressing  zephyrs  fingered 
His  shining  curls.     Not  softer  was  the  kiss 
Wherewith  Amor  woke  Psyche  back  to  bliss; 
Nor  whiter  was  the  crest  of  Leda's  swan 
Than  the  young  brow  the  tresses  drooped  upon; 
Nor  straighter-limbed  was  any  cedar's  span, 
Nor  fairer  any  form  Olympian 
Than  his  that  lay  supine  upon  the  moss. 
Blue  were  his  eyes  as  caverned  lakes,  across 
Whose  vivid  depths  hope  played  like  leaping 

flame, 

And  longing  like  a  shadow  went  and  came. 
Now  soft  they  closed,  as  flowers  close  at  night; 
As  feathers  fall,  so  fell  his  eyelids  white. 
And  slow  a  sigh  of  peace  stole  'twixt  his  lips, 
A  half -breathed  note,  as  when  a  swallow  dips 
In  swerving  flight,  and  stirs  the  passive  air 
To  silken  sound. 

Thus  lay  Narcissus  there, 
A  fresh-culled  lily  dropped  amid  the  green, 
Fairer  than  any  plucked  by  Proserpine 


12  Narcissus 

What  time  Dis  found  her,  bosomed  mid  the 

flowers, 

And  gathered  her  to  grace  death's  dreary  bowers. 
A  stern  old  river  god  had  fathered  him; 
A  nymph  his  mother,  peerless  face  and  limb; 
Half  mortal,  half  immortal  thus  was  born, 
As,  sooth,  all  sons  of  men,  albeit  shorn 
In  better  part  of  their  divinity 
Through  blind  acceptance  of  a  less  degree, 
Content  to  reach  no  higher  than  man's  nature, 
Who,  an  they  would,  might  all  be  gods  in  stature. 

Awhile  Narcissus  dreamed  beneath  the  trees, 
O'ermastered  by  a  pleasantness  of  ease 
That  drugged  his  senses  like  an  opiate; 
Then  woke  to  quickened  consciousness,  elate 
When  from  a  topmost  bough  a  wee  bold  bird 
Trilled  to  its  nest,  or  when  his  fine  ear  heard 
The  whispered  rustle  of  a  bee-swung  leaf, 
Or  whir  of  fragile  wings,  where  in  relief 
Against  the  light  some  gauzy  thing  took  shape. 
Pleasant  it  was  to  mark  the  gnat  escape 
The  net  it  floundered  on;  to  watch  the  moth 
Breathe  open  and  breathe  shut  ere  trembling 

forth 

To  flirt  its  painted  pinions  in  the  sun; 
Pleasant  to  see  the  little  seedlings  run 
Like  live  things  all  along  the  tufted  grass; 
Pleasant  to  see  the  invisible  breezes  pass ; 
To  see  the  thistledown,  steered  soft  aside 


Narcissus  13 

From  wrecking  thorn  and  bramble  undescried, 
Sail  on  in  billowy  lightness  o'er  the  swell 
Of  aerial  seas.     Pleasant  the  pungent  smell 
Of  bruised  balsams  and  of  rain-wet  roots, 
The  aroma  of  young  leaves  and  spicy  shoots; 
Pleasant  each  subtlest  scent  and  sight  and  sound 
Within  the  whole  wide  wood's  idyllic  round. 
And  in  the  appealing  beauty  of  the  spot 
Narcissus  his  life-loneliness  forgot, 
Alone  no  longer  in  a  solitude 
Graced  with  such  gifts  in  royal  plenitude. 
For  kind  as  knight  to  damsel  in  distress 
Is  Nature,  to  who  seeks  her  large  caress. 

But  now  the  lustrous  day  waned  toward  its  close. 
And  slowly,  like  thin  mountain  mists,  uprose 
The  laid-by  ghosts  of  thought,  again  to  vex 
Narcissus*  soul  with  problems,  and  perplex 
With  haunting  wonders.     Wherefore  was  it  given 
To  mortal  to  conceive  himself  a  Heaven, 
Yet  win  no  nearer  to  his  goal?     Oh,  sweet 
Beyond  all  earthly  sweetness,  and  complete 
Beyond  all  earth's  perfections,  his  ideal! 
The  beautiful  to  be  the  only  real, 
The  good  the  only  truth,  truth  life's  one  aim. 
Who  could  the  splendour  of  such  hope  defame, 
Brooking  a  lesser  glory — be  content 
With  any  excellence  less  excellent 
Than  the  supremely  best?  Yet  though  one  search 
The  world  o  'er,  doth  some  blemish  not  besmirch 


14  Narcissus 

The  whitest  soul,  mar  the  divinest  face? 

Who  dare  show  all  his  heart,  nor  court  disgrace? 

Doth  any  lift  at  noon,  unstained,  untorn, 

The  spotless  standard  he  upraised  at  morn? 

Doth  any  bring  from  battle  blade  as  bright 

As  that  he  erst  unsheathed  for  the  fight? 

Who  steers  his  puny  skiff  through  wind  and 

storm 

Unharmed  to  port?    Alas!    The  high  gods  form 
In  ranks  above,  and  watch  with  cruel  laughter 
Each  bark  set  sail,  knowing  what  shall  be  after — 
A  broken  helm,  dragged  anchor,  drifting  oar. 
Who  pilots  soul  so  shipwrecked  to  the  shore? 
The  struggle  over,  death's  black  current  sweeps 
Each  down  where  Hecate  in  loathing  steeps 
From  flowerless  weeds  the  odious  rank  wine 
That  slakes  forever  thirst  for  the  divine. 
And  there  in  Lethe 's  level-flowing  stream, 
Lost  is  the  last  faint  glimmer  of  his  dream. 

Thus  ran  Narcissus'  thought  in  darkening  lines, 
As  shadows  lengthen  when  the  day  divines 
Approaching  night.     And  as  the  moonlight  fails 
When  shredded  clouds,  like  shallops  with  blown 

sails, 

Drift  darkling  o'er  the  silver  of  its  track, 
So  loneliness  upon  his  heart  crept  back 
In  broken  gusts  of  feeling,  till  at  last 
The  whole  sky  of  his  soul  was  overcast. 
No  Pylades  he  reckoned  mid  his  friends 


Narcissus  15 

To  match  him  pulse  by  pulse.     Affection  ends 
Where  fear  begins,  and  he  who  climbs  too  high 
Must  climb  alone.     O'er-earnest  was  his  eye, 
O'er-grave  his  smile,  o'er- weighed  with  thought 

his  speech. 

No  comrade  of  them  all  aspired  to  reach 
His  soul's  far  height,  nor  willed  to  understand 
The  import  of  his  spirit's  stern  demand. 
"Youth,"  said  they,   "is  the  heyday  time  of 

flowers. 

Leave  age  the  gathering  of  simples.     Hours 
Compact  of  bloom  and  light  and  melody, 
Pertain  to  Pan  and  to  Terpsichore. 
When  Pan's  pipe  shivers,  when  the  dead  leaf 

falls, 
When  from  the  naked  bough  the  gaunt  crow 

calls, 
When  fitful  gales  scream  down  the  withered 

hills, 
And  from  the  mountain  blows  the  blast  that 

kills, 
When    Nature    is    grown    hollow-cheeked    and 

haggard, 
With  faded  smile  and  heart-beats  faint  and 

laggard, 

Then  may  we  meditate  with  likelier  reason 
Themes  that  in  glowing  June  are  out  of  season. 
Now,"  said  they,  "is  our  June-time.     Fare  thee 

well. 
We  leave  thee  for  warm  banks  of  asphodel. 


16  Narcissus 

Thou,  with  thy  Circe  face  and  Pallas  tongue, 
Dream  on  as  liketh  thee. " 

So  mocking  flung 

Each  one  his  word,  and  singing  turned  aside. 
(He  had  not  lonelier  been  an  he  had  died.) 

"  'T  is  spring  time,  't  is  wing  time, 
The  whole  world  's  in  motion; 
'T  is  sing  time,  't  is  swing  time 

From  ocean  to  ocean! 

The  grasses  salaam;  the  reeds  titter  and  nod; 
Every  zephyr  that  blows  is  the  breath  of  a  god. 
Every  leaf  is  a-curtseying,  each  to  its  neigh 
bours, 

The  moss-banks  are  waving  their  delicate  sabres. 
The  luminous  ether  drops  bird-notes  like  dew 
From   the   glimmering,    shimmering,    palpitant 

blue. 
The  clouds  are  white  eagles  that  fly  toward  the 

sun. 

The  brooklets  are  ground-larks  that  sing  as  they 
run. 

Oh,  't  is  May  time,  't  is  play  time! 
The  whole  world  's  a  riot — 
A  joyous  disquiet 

Of  sunbeams  that  flicker,  of  water  that  heaves. 
Pan,   Pan  from  the  rushes  is  piping:    'Come 

hither!' 

The  swallow  swoops  downward:  'Oh,  whither? 
oh,  whither?' 


Narcissus  17 

And  'Thither!'  the  faun  from  the  forest  cries: 
'Thither!' 

And  Dry  ope  laughs  through  her  leaves. 
Oh,  't  is  dove  time,  't  is  love  time! 
The  whole  world  is  mating. 
E  'en  Dis  on  his  throne  in  the  dark  under  zone 

Is  a- weary  with  waiting, 
A- weary  with  comfortless  flowerless  night, 
And  has  snatched  him  a  bride  from  soft  regions  of 

light. 

E'en  Dian  o'er  Latmos  leans  low  from  the  cloud, 
In  the  white  of  her  magic  love's  dreams  to 

enshroud. 
E'en  the  wind-footed  maid  falters  thrice  as  she 

flies, 

To  lift  the  gold  apple  shall  make  her  love's  prize. 
E'en  Daphne,  a-quiver  through  all  her  young 

boughs, 
Sighs  faintly :  '  Alas  for  the  unfulfilled  vows ! 

Apollo!  Apollo!  Apollo!' 
Creation  's  ablaze  with  the  one  flaming  fire: 
Athrill  with  one  passion,  one  burning  desire. 
Love  calls  from  the  hilltop,  Love  calls  from  the 
hollow, 

1  'T  is  spring  time,  't  is  wing  time, 

'T  is  dove  time,  't  is  love  time, 
Oh,  follow!  Oh,  follow!  Oh,  follow!'" 

Amid  the  careless  crowd  were  some  forsooth 
Knew  no  disfavour  toward  the  beauteous  youth. 


1 8  Narcissus 

Full  many  a  nymph  had  wooed  him,  though  for 

naught ; 

And  Echo,  loveliest  of  them  all,  distraught 
For  love  of  him,  as  true  as  Clytie, 
As  fleet  of  foot  as  Lelaps,  sure  as  he, 
And  more  untiring  than  Alectryon, 
Wherever  led  Liriope's  lone  son 
Followed  upon  his  footsteps  undeterred, 
Though  never  backward  glance  he  gave,  nor 

word. 

Weeping  and  smiting  her  bare  breast  she  went, 
On  him  who  pressed  before  her  gaze  attent. 
Her  eyes,  tear-brimmed  as  anguished  Niobe's, 
Were  midnight  stars,  mirrored  on  midnight  seas. 
So  slight  her  form  she  scarce  a  shadow  cast ; 
It  seemed  a  ray  of  light  shone  where  she  passed. 
Her  footfall  left  the  dew  upon  the  blade, 
Left  whole  the  cobweb's  labyrinthine  braid, 
Met  neither  prick  of  stone  nor  thrust  of  thorn. 
Soft  as  the  silken  tassel  of  the  corn, 
And  yellow  as  the  glittering  Golden  Fleece, 
Her  bright  hair,  falling,  veiled  her  to  the  knees. 
Medusa's  locks  burned  not  with  richer  flame 
Ere  Pallas  smote  their  glory  into  shame. 

Certes  no  lovelier  nymph  in  earth's  demesne, 
Nor  sweeter,  sued  for  love.     Yet  never  quean 
Less  guerdon  won  for  unsought  heart's  full  dole, 
Nor  paid  in  costlier  coin  Love's  unjust  toll. 
Silent  she  went  as  image  carved  in  stone, 


Narcissus  19 

Voiceless  since  one  dread  day  not  far  agone 
When  Here,  the  implacable  in  hate, 
Avenging  some  poor  slight  shown  her  estate, 
Took  from  the  maid  birthright  of  speech  at  will, 
Decreeing  she  her  smitten  years  fulfil 
Dumb  as  the  dead,  save  if  one  spake.     Then 

must 

She,  stooping,  lift  his  last  word  from  the  dust, 
Whate'er  it  be,  and  call  it  o'er  and  o'er 
Till  her  breath  fail  her,  and  she  can  no  more. 

Cruel,  O  goddess,  thine  adjudged  award 
For  that  sweet  tale  that  held  thee  from  thy  guard 
With  soft-tongued  nothings  all  of  half  a  day, 
The  while  thy  lord  pursued  his  unwatched  way ! 

Thus,  on  an  eve  whereof  this  seemed  the  fellow — 
So  soft  its  shades,  its  dripping  lights  so  mellow — 
Narcissus,  unaware  of  her  who  followed, 
Once  roamed  the  woods.     A  rushing  torrent 

hollowed 

Here  a  ravine,  along  whose  rock-strewn  crest 
Idly  he  wandered,  every  sense  at  rest 
In  a  charmed  peace  of  chosen  solitude 
That  left  no  room  for  cognizance  of  mood, 
Nor  unfulfilled  desire  of  anything. 
Sudden  a  homing  bird  on  scarlet  wing 
Splashed  through  the  green  and  swooped  upon 

his  sight. 
Impelled,  he  bent  his  gaze  to  note  its  flight ; 


2O  Narcissus 

So  heard  a  breath,  so  saw  an  aspen  stir, 
So  caught  a  gleam  from  golden  hair  of  her 
Who,    still    leaf-hidden,    breathless    where    she 

stood — 

A  slim  wild  thing  within  a  wilder  wood — 
Waited  for  sign  from  him  as  from  a  god. 

Swift  anger  took  him,  and  he  stamped  the  sod 
Like  one  entrapped.     The  solitude  despoiled, 
Comradeship  unelect  thrust  on  him,  foiled 
The  hour's  magic.     Irked  by  his  vexation, 
He  strode  on,  glooming.     She,  in  strange  elation 
That   stayed   her   trembling   limbs   up    like  a 

crutch, 

Stept  unseen  after,  till,  teased  overmuch 
By  conscience  of  some  creature  lurking  there 
With  eyes  that  drank  his  movements  as  a  hare 
Drinks  sound,  he  swept  about,  all  measure  lost, 
His  beauteous  head  thrown  high,  his  curls  back 

tost. 
"Speak!  Who  is  here?"  quoth  he. 

Forth  from  the  wood 
She  crept,  obedient,  and  drooping  stood. 
"Here,"  breathed  she  back.     And  then  again: 

"Here.     Here." 

And  once  again,  faint  as  a  falling  tear, 
"Here."     Dazed,  abashed,  with  suppliant  eyes 

aglow, 

Stood  so  before  him,  white  as  driven  snow, 
Her  gold  hair  all  about  her  like  a  cloud, 


Narcissus 


21 


Her  tender  hands  outstretched,  her  bright  head 

bowed. 

So  Semele,  before  the  blasting  splendour 
Of  fire-crowned  Zeus,  did  her  weak  soul  surrender. 

But  wrath  held  the  young  heart  of  him  in  bond. 
Too  angered  to  show  pity  or  be  fond, 
Rudely  he  flung  at  her:  "Why  followest  me? 
Whom  seekest  thou,  I  pray  thee?" 

"Thee!  "cried  she, 

And  faltered  to  her  knees,  wet  eyes  adoring, 
Wan  arms  upraised,  the  whole  bent  form  implor 
ing. 

"Thee !  Thee ! "     And  once  again,  as  soft,  as  low 
As  dropping  flake  upon  new  fallen  snow, 
"Thee!" 

Yet  more  rough  his  speech.     "By  all 
above  me, 

No  bolder  couldst  thou  be  an  didst  thou  love 
me!" 

She  quivered  like  a  leaf  on  shaken  tree. 
Across  her  brow  a  flame  rushed  scorchingly. 
"Love  me,"   she   whispered,   helpless.     "Love 
me — me." 

As  from  beyond  a  separating  sea 

The  murmur  floated  to  his  heedless  ear, 

A  prayer  fit  only  for  kind  Heaven  to  hear 


22  Narcissus 

For  depth  of  pain  and  passion  it  confest, 
Her  whole  soul-life  within  the  word  comprest. 
His  look  was  as  a  knife- thrust  in  her  heart. 
Scornful     he     laughed:     "Nay,    prithee,    stay 

apart ! 

I  love  not  thee  nor  any.     So  farewell," 
And  broke  aside  and  plunged  within  the  dell 
Whose  depths  received  and  hid  him  from  her 

sight. 

Her  body  could  no  more  her  will  requite. 

Her  feet  refused  to  follow.     Her  dimmed  eyes 

Denied  their  service.     Forest,  rocks,  and  skies 

Fell  into  chaos.     Like  a  broken  flower, 

Too  rudely  blown  on  in  a  stormy  hour, 

She  drooped  upon  herself,  vanquished,  undone. 

As  drowns  the  moon  in  glory  of  the  sun, 
As  melts  the  out  blown  foam  upon  the  seas, 
As  fades  the  drifting  perfume  on  the  breeze, 
As  pales  the  bow  on  heaven 's  stupendous  blue, 
So  her  great  love  her  fainting  spirit  slew. 
"Farewell.     Farewell,"  once  and  again  she 

sighed : 
Then  prone  upon  the  sward  sank  down  and 

died, 

And  where  she  was,  was  nothing,  save  a  mist 
Exhaling  on  the  ether.     All  earth  list 
With  a  quick  inward-taken  breath.    "Farewell, " 
Like  the  last  quiver  of  a  ceasing  bell 


Narcissus  23 

Came  floating  downward,  and  her  soul  passed 

on — 
A  sob  among  the  hills — and  so  was  gone. 

As  traversed  roads  seen  through  an  autumn  haze 
Shut  on  returning  vision,  so  those  days, 
Misted  by  memory,  now  dimly  caught 
And  loosely  held  Narcissus'  roving  thought. 
Love  him  beseemed  some  lustre  yet  to  come — 
Some   greatness   should   strike   lesser   honours 

dumb — 

A  splendour  beyond  passion,  beyond  sense, 
Surpassing  all  conceived  magnificence. 
Wherefore,  to  dally  with  or  love  or  faith 
Of   slighter   worth,    were   but   to   love  Love's 

wraith. 

Thus  mused  he,  his  swift  fancy  soaring  higher 

And  higher  as  on  lark- wings  of  desire, 

Till  in  the  infinite,  as  in  the  blue 

The  mounting  bird  dissolves  upon  the  view, 

His  spirit  lost  itself. 

Scarce  sentient  lay 

His  body  thus,  till  by  the  close  of  day 
Thirst  whispered  him.     Awaked  to  fleshly  needs, 
He  gazed  around,  half  lifted  from  the  weeds. 
A  holy  hush  suffused  the  temperate  air; 
Peace,  like  a  written  word,  lay  everywhere. 
The  birds  were  still.     No  tiniest   breeze  was 
playing. 


24  Narciss-us 

The  leaves  hung  lax,  like  hands  down  dropped 

from  praying. 

Pale  gold  the  sky:  pale  gold  the  lake:  pale  gold 
The  light  wherein  the  woods  were  cloaked  and 

stoled 

As  had  the  hour  invested  all  creation 
For  one  supernal  act  of  adoration. 
And  the  vast  silence  was  as  music.     Thrilled 
With  harmonies  empyrean,  it  filled 
All  space  with  soundless  song.     No  living  speech 
To  so  impassioned  utterance  could  reach. 
And  now  for  very  bliss  Day  swooned  to  death, 
Pouring    his     heart    out    in    a    blood-stained 

breath, 
And  Heaven  stooped  to  gather  in  his  soul. 

With  awe  Narcissus  watched  from  pole  to  pole 
The  burning  splendour  spread,  until  again 
Thirst  called  to  him,  insistent,  like  a  pain. 
"E'en   so,"    thought    he,    "my  thirst   for    the 

ideal 

Is  yet  to  find  assuagement  in  the  real. 
Some  victor  hour  high  Heaven  shall  give  reply: 
My  soul  must  come  into  its  own,  or  die. " 

Recumbent  still,  along  the  pliant  grass, 
To  where  the  lake  lay  like  a  thing  of  glass, 
His  supple  limbs  he  drew  with  lissome  grace, 
Till  o'er  the  brink  he  bent  his  perfect  face, 
"To  all  the  gods  I  drink,"  devoutly  said, 


Narcissus  25 

And  to  the  gleaming  surface  stooped  his  head. 

Lo !  as  he  bent  above  the  golden  sheen, 
A  face,  young,  exquisite,  rose  up  between 
His  thirsting  lips  and  the  clear  depths  below. 
As  sudden  sun  on  field  of  frosted  snow, 
So  dazzling  on  his  sight  the  vision  broke, 
And  in  his  breast  tumult  of  joyance  woke. 
Aside  he  crept,  bewildered  at  such  blaze 
Of  beauty,  and  af eared  lest  'neath  his  gaze 
It  flee  affrighted,  as  once  Eros  fled 
When  glance  too  curious  was  hazarded 
On  his  fair  godhood.     Vain  the  trembling  pause! 
Back  the  lake  drew  him  as  a  magnet  draws. 
And  lo !  again  the  face,  its  radiant  eyes 
Fixt  on  him  in  a  wonder  of  surprise 
And  questioning.     Not  fairer  e  'en  was  he 
By  jealous  Zephyr  slain,  nor  fairer  she 
Born  whitely  of  sea-foam  on  billowing  crest. 
Oh,  beauty  past  belief — Creation's  best — 
Faultless  of  form,  instinct  with  faultless  soul — 
Perfect  in  one  incomparable  whole! 
All  his  own  lofty  longings  looked  at  him 
From  those  deep  eyes.     All  his  ideals  dim 
And  vague  and  exquisite,  here  realised, 
Informed  with  lovely  life  he  recognised. 
Scarce  drew  he  breath  for  rush  of  ecstasy. 
Each  high  and  godlike  possibility, 
Enfolded  in  the  soul  as  is  the  flower 
Within  the  bud,  in  that  revealing  hour 


26  Narcissus 

Divinely  dawned  on  him  and  held  him  mute, 
As  waits  the  unsung  song  within  the  lute 
The  liberating  hand. 

A  moment  yet 

He  dallied  with  enchantment.     Then,  beset 
By  marvel,  breathed,  "Who  art  thou?"  half  in 

awe, 

And  as  he  spoke,  his  question  spoken  saw. 
"Thine  other  self,"  he  whispered  down,  and 

thought 

The  same  soft  syllables  he  answering  caught. 
Nearer  he  pressed.     The  vision  came  more  near, 
Ardent  as  he,  as  he,  too,  in  sweet  fear — 
Gave  back  his  look  of  high  companionship, 
His  joy  ineffable,  from  eye  and  lip, 
Gave  back  his  eager  smile,  his  timorous  grace, 
Gave  love  for  love  in  that  brief  instant's  space, 
Till  he,  thereat  emboldened  overmuch, 
With  cry  triumphant  closer  stooped  to  touch 
The  lips  so  near  his  own;  almost  he  felt 
Their  breath  ambrosial  in  his  own  breath  melt 
As  fragrance  of  two  roses  blends  in  one: 
When  ah!  e'en  as  they  met,  the  face  was  gone. 

Confounded  he  leaped  up.     What  swift  disguise 
Had  some  god  lent  to  thwart  him  of  his  prize? 
His  searching  glance  swept  lake  and  sky  in  wrath, 
If  haply  trace  were  of  the  followed  path. 
"Fear  naught,  O  Love!"  he  called.     "Return! 
Haste  hither!" 


Narcissus  27 

He  listened,  tense .    Reply  came  from  no  whither . 
The  widening  rings  across  the  water's  breast 
In  burnished  grooves  ran  toward  the  shining  west. 
Pale  gold  the  world,  and  Silence  its  high-priest. 

Breathless  he  waited,  his  desire  increased 
Sevenfold  by  loss.     But  sudden,  like  a  flame 
Cut  off,  the  daylight  went,  and  darkness  came 
With  velvet  tread  adown  the  hill's  long  slope. 
And  as  a  frost- touched  flower  fades,  his  hope 
Shrivelled  and  fell.     Then  woke  a  little  breeze 
Within  the  wood,  and  stole  from  out  the  trees, 
And  touched  as  with  a  small  forbidding  palm 
His  wet,  cold  cheek.     There  seized  him  an  alarm 
Futile  and  formless  as  a  mist.     Dismayed, 
Incontinent  he  drew  back  to  the  shade 
Of  the  friendly  oaks  as  to  a  warm  green  tent, 
So  generously  the  courteous  branches  lent 
Their  shelter.     There  at  last,  soothed,  comforted 
By  their  benignant  presence,  his  fair  head 
Pillowed  upon  their  cushioned  roots,  he  slept, 
And  in  his  dreams  tryst  with  the  vision  kept. 

Near  and  more  near  now  came  soft-stepping 

night 

O'er  neighbouring  hills  of  dusky  malachite, 
As  dying  day  undid  the  eastern  bars. 
Her  flying  tresses  braided  with  gold  stars, 
The  rustle  of  her  garment,  loosely  flowing, 
Making  a  murmured  music  of  her  going, 


28  Narcissiis 

Her  languorous  lids  half  closed,  her  slackened 

hand 
Dropping  down  dreams,  slow  passed  she  o'er 

the  land, 

A  perfume  faint,  miraculously  sweet — 
The  breath  of  blossoms  bruised  beneath  her  feet — 
Trailing  like  brume  of  incense  after  her ; 
And  place  and  time  became  one  wide  deep  blur. 

Scarce  had  the  Hours  begun  their  matin  flight 
Across  the  skies,  linked  in  prismatic  light, 
Scarce  had  the  golden  chariot  emerged 
From  the  vast  trough  where  rose-clouds  seethed 

and  surged, 

When,  with  the  first  bird-note  that  tuned  the  air 
To  tinkling  sweetness,  from  his  leafy  lair 
Narcissus  came,  hope  born  again  with  day. 
A  jewelled  world  before  him  glowing  lay. 
A  carbuncle  the  bed  where  late  he  dreamed; 
'Neath  opal  sky  the  lake  an  opal  seemed; 
The  hills,  translucent  through  soft  moonstone 

mists, 

Were  glimmering  sapphires  and  pale  amethysts ; 
The  forest  boughs  a  mass  of  beryls  swung; 
A  chrysoprase  from  every  grass-sheath  hung; 
Onyx  and  sardonyx  was  Earth's  bare  crust, 
And  all  the  scintillant  air  was  diamond  dust. 

Joy  filled  Narcissus'  heart.     Joy  burst  in  song 
From  his  glad  lips.     He  threw  himself  along 


Narcissus  29 

The  water's  brim,  half  hidden  in  lush  grass, 
Conjuring  Zeus  to  bring  his  dream  to  pass. 
And  straightway,  from  the  east  upon  his  right, 
Came  a  young  dove  in  iridescent  flight — 
Omen  of  good  that  Heaven  assenting  gave — 
And  he,  exultant,  o'er  the  placid  wave 
Leaned  his  bright  head. 

Ha!  From  the  depths  anew 
It  rose  to  meet  him  through  the  riven  blue — 
A  star  ascending!     Sight  so  dear  as  this 
Surpassed  concept — lips  pleading  for  his  kiss, 
Eyes  mystic  with  unfathomable  adoring, 
Arms  outstretched  as  his  own  were  in  imploring. 
Surely  such  look  Alcestis  wore,  re-given 
From  death  to  him  whose  love  made  all  her 

Heaven. 

An  instant  of  transported  recognition, 
And  lo !  again  it  was  not.     What  fruition 
Of  hope  was  this?     Between  his  groping  hands 
The  soft  cool  waters  slipped  like  silken  bands ; 
The  tall  weeds  washed  against  his  arms  and 

clung ; 

The  wet  curls  from  his  forehead  dripping  hung. 
But  vanished  was  the  vision.     Too  elate 
Had  been  his  hope  and  too  precipitate, 
Snatching  at  bliss  ere  yet  was  due  the  wage. 
Back  fled  he  to  his  leafy  hermitage, 
Such  grief  upon  him  as  was  that  which  tore 
Achilles  when  Patroclus  was  no  more. 
Not  Phaeton  from  heaven  more  headlong  fell, 


30  Narcissus 

Nor  Icarus,  to  sorrow's  deepest  hell, 
Than  now  Narcissus,  till  at  last  o'ercame 
His  passionate  longing  his  defeat  and  shame, 
And  drove  him  to  the  water's  edge  once  more. 
There  once  again  joy  shook  him  to  the  core, 
For  there,  as  if,  re-conquered  by  his  grief, 
Willing  to  grant  him  semblance  of  relief, 
The  dear  face  tarried  for  him,  smiled  on  him 
With  joy  commensurate,  through  eyes  yet  dim 
With    undried    tears,    more    passionate,    more 

tender, 

Grown  its  expression  of  divine  surrender, 
More  exquisite  its  rapture  of  devotion. 
Intoxicate  with  answering  emotion, 
Moveless  as  marble  image,  dumb  with  bliss, 
Fear-taught  to  caution,  lest  again  he  miss 
The  joy  he  grasped  at,  long  Narcissus  knelt 
Bowed  o'er  the  lake,  nor  thirst  nor  hunger  felt, 
Nor  weariness,  nor  any  selfhood  knew, 
Lost  in  the  vision's  ravishment. 

So  flew 

Time  by,  if  told  in  moments  or  in  days 
He  reckoned  not.     Immovably  his  gaze 
Was  stayed  upon  the  changing  face  below, 
So  full  of  noble  longings  and  the  woe 
Of  unattained  desires,  that  last  as  first 
Fled  from  his  touch  as  were  he  thing  accurst, 
Till,  acquiescent  grown  through  slow  despair, 
He  strove  no  more,  and  prayed  but  one  mad 

prayer — 


Narcissxis  31 

That  day  endure  for  aye.  For  light  was  life, 
And  darkness  death — twilight  a  losing  strife, 
Where  life  and  death  did  battle,  and  death 

won. 

Sleep  had  abandoned  him.     From  sun  to  sun 
One  gnawing  care,  one  ravenous  need  alone 
Sucked  at  his  life — the  need  to  make  his  own 
The  beauty  featured  in  that  haunting  face. 
Alas!  doth  Heaven  accord  to  any  grace 
To  win  to  the  ideal  through  desire 
Unfructified?     Like  torch  to  funeral  pyre 
Is  aspiration  without  effort.     He 
Who  rounds  his  faulted  soul  to  symmetry, 
Needs  more  than  barren  worship  of  the  good 
To  re-create  him  to  the  shape  he  would. 
Too  late  Narcissus,  swooning  o'er  the  lake, 
Saw  mirrored  there  what  life  had  held  at  stake ; 
Saw  written  clear,  those  lovely  lines  within, 
All  he  was  meant  to  be  and  might  have  been; 
Too  late  saw  all  his  soul  had  lost  of  gain; 
Too  late  saw  sin  in  failure  to  attain. 

Thus,  goaded  by  vain  longing,  fled  his  strength 
As  flies  the  wind-lashed  sand,  t'ill  spent  at  length, 
With  piteous  glazed  eyes  that  saw  no  more 
Fixt  where  the  wave  the  abiding  vision  bore, 
Soulless,  insensate,  conscienceless  he  lay, 
A  thing  by  Earth  and  Heaven  cast  away. 
And  days  passed,  with  their  sunbeams  and  their 
blooms, 


32  Narcissms 

And  nights  passed,  with  their  stars  and  solemn 

glooms, 
And  still  the  gods  were  silent. 

So  died  he, 

For  love  of  that  which  he  had  failed  to  be — 
A  soul  all  unfulfilled  and  incomplete. 
And  where  he  died,  a  milk-white  flower,  sweet 
With  unuttered  and  unutterable  things, 
Fruitless  through  Nature's  many  harvestings, 
And  bearing  at  its  heart  a  burning  flame, 
Grew,   and   was   called    thenceforward   by   his 
name. 


Vita 

An  Allegorical  Drama 


33 


TO 

FRANCESE   LITCHFIELD   TURNBULL 


35 


PERSONAGES 

TIME,  Guardian  of  Truth 

VITA,  Daughter  of  Time 

TRUTH 

HAPPINESS 

FAITH    ~) 

CARE      [•  Attendants  of  Vita 

MALICE  ) 

HOPE,  a  Sorceress 

HISTORY,  a  Herald 

THREE  COURTIERS 

CHORUS  OF  THE  DAYS 


ACT  I 

(SCENE  i — Throne-room  in  the  palace  of  TIME. 
Chorus — seven  maidens  hand  in  hand — sur 
rounding  the  throne.     TIME  seated  in  state 
upon  it.) 
CHORUS  : 

O    most    mighty,    most    glorious, 
Most  high,  most  victorious, 

Most  ancient  of  birth! 
O  Monarch  supremest! 
O  Power  extremest 

And  gentlest  of  Earth! 

Who  are  we  to  adore  thee? 
What  are  all  things  before  thee 

But  drops  in  a  river 
That  hastes  to  be  tossed  in  thee, 
Left  in  thee,  lost  in  thee, 

For  ever  and  ever! 

0  Ruler  of  Ages, 
Awarder  of  wages 

To  the  cycles  in  round ! 
We  grow  faint  in  thy  glory, 
37 


38  Vita  ACT  i 

O  Sovereign  hoary, 

Star-girdled,  sun-crowned ! 

(The  music  becomes  softer  and  softer  and  the 
maidens  disappear  with  the  last  line,  their 
song  still  sounding  faintly  in  the  distance. 
Enter  HISTORY.) 

HISTORY:  Hail,  Master! 

TIME  :  Thou  art  welcome,  History. 

Whence  comest  thou? 

HISTORY:  From  every  whither  home. 

TIME:  What  hast  thou  gleaned? 

HISTORY:  Both  good  and  evil. 

TIME:  Much 

I  trow  of  evil,  but  yet  more  of  good, 
Else   hast    thou    falsely   garnered.     Sift   thine 
hoard. 

HISTORY  :  There  have  been  mighty  wars. 

TIME  :  I  will  note  down 

Their   chieftains.     Be  the  rest  forgot.     Pass  on. 

HISTORY:   One  fell  for  whom  a  stricken  world 
makes  moan. 

TIME  :   I  will  replace  him. 

HISTORY:  All  the  earth  is  red 

And  sick  with  blood. 

TIME:  I  will  reman  tie  it 

With  peace  and  flowers. 

HISTORY  :  There  live  who  best  were  dead. 

TIME  :   I  will  overtake  them. 

HISTORY:  A  new  creed  is  born. 


sc.  i  Vita  39 

TIME  :   I  will  examine  it. 

HISTORY:  A  genius  dies 

Unrecognised. 

TIME:  I  will  embalm  his  name. 

HISTORY:  A  villain  walks  in  honour. 

TIME:  I  will  brand 

His  tomb. 

HISTORY:   Men  toil. 

TIME:  I  will  bring  rest  to  each. 

HISTORY:   Men  weep. 

TIME  :  I  will  bring  all  forget  fulness. 

Hast  more? 

HISTORY:    But  this.     One  seeketh  Truth  of 
thee. 

TIME  :  Thinks  he  to  look  on  Truth  and  live? 

HISTORY:  He  dares. 

TIME:   Whence  comet h  he? 

HISTORY:  Man  knows  not  whence  nor  when, 
Nor  more  than  that  Earth  names  him  Happiness. 

TIME:  I  know  him  of  repute,  but  not  of  form. 
I  have  not  looked  on  him  since  Earth  was  young, 
And  have  grown  old  in  watching  for  him.  Go. 

(Exit  HISTORY.) 

Ha,   this  imports  in  very  deed!     He   comes— 
He  whom  I  could  not  summon  at  my  will, 
Nor  bend  to  my  control!     He  comes  at  last, 
Albeit  not  in  homage;   seeking  Truth, 
Of  me,  her  long-time  guardian,  makes  his  claim. 
Fool!    Fool!    Have  they  who  sought  her  of  me 
found? 


40  Vita  ACT  i 

Have  they  who  begged  her  of  me  won  their 

prayer? 
Not  yet!    Men  cry  out:  Truth!    Oh,  give  us 

Truth! 

And  know  not  what  they  cry  for.     Did  I  yield, — 
Did  I  at  their  insistence  bring  her  forth 
And  set  her  in  the  midst  of  them,  ablaze 
With  the  bareness  of  her  splendour, — why,  how 

then? 

Not  yet  is  Earth  attempered  unto  Truth. 
Men  hold  their  cursed  idols  all  too  close 
To    their    false   hearts   to    meet    her    face    to 

face, 

To  take  her  by  the  hand,  and  say:    Be  mine! 
What  throne  so  high  is,  she  might  sit  thereon, 
Nor  dim  the  crown  of  him  she  sat  beside? 
What  fane  so  pure  is,  she  might  kneel  within 
Nor  show  their  garments  spotted  who  made 

prayer? 

What  love  so  bright  she  would  not  tarnish  it — 
What  art  so  rich  she  would  not  beggar  it 
With  but  a  glance?     Go  to!     The  day  's  not 

ripe 

For  her  revealing.     Truth  is  dangerous 
To  hearts  unaccoladed  to  her  touch. 
She  shall  not  forth. 

(Enter  VITA.) 

TIME:  Thou,  Vita? 

VITA:  Father,  hail. 


sc.  i  Vita  41 

TIME  :     Fitly  thy  coming  chimeth  with  desire. 
Here  's  joy  for  thee. 

VITA:  Ripe  fruits  hang  not  o'er  long. 

I  plucked  thy  word  in  coming.     Grateful  was  't 
To  my  life's  thirst. 

TIME:  How  came  my  word  to  thee? 

VITA:    Methinks  my  heart  did  hear  before 

mine  ears. 

They     catch     light     sounds    who     hark     for 
Happiness. 

TIME:   Then  listen  close.     For  soft  as  step  of 

sun 

On  cushioned  sward — noiseless  as  rush  of  star 
Across  night's  azure — still  as  stir  of  leaf 
Unfurling  to  the  spring — so  Happiness 
Comes  to  this  world  of  watchers,  so  goes  by, 
Unheard. 

VITA  :    What  boots  it  then  I  waste  slow  years 
Mistaking  mine  own  pulse-beats  for  his  call? 
Great  Father,  giver  of  gifts,  my  being  crown ! 
Bid  Happiness  be  mine! 

TIME  :  This  may  I  not. 

VITA:  How  may'st  thou  not?     What  wonder 
working  will 

Can  bar  the  consequence  of  thy  command? 
Are  not  all  born  thy  slaves? 

TIME  :  All  save  this  one, 

Who  nor  my  vassal  is,  nor  names  me  Lord. 

VITA:    Thou  mock'st!     Art  not  supreme? 

TIME  :  There  is  no  power 


42  Vita  ACT  i 

But  hath  its  bound.     Albeit  my  law  obtains 
From  this  pale  globe  to  Heaven's  remotest  sun, 
Here  stays  my  rule.     Here  ends  my  sovereignty. 

VITA:     Thou  nam'st  thy  greatness  and  thy 

nothingness 
In    the    one   breath.     What  hath  that   power 

of  worth 

Which  doth  possess  all  excellence  save  one 
That  is  the  essence  and  the  sum  of  all? 
Father,  I  will  have  Happiness!  I  will! 
Give  thou  me  Happiness !  Give,  give !  oh  give ! 

TIME:    Leave  off  thine  importunities.     Weak 

prayers, 

Blown  by  vain  winds  against  the  impossible, 
Make  shipwreck  and  are  lost. 
VITA:  But  wherefore  then 

Comes  Happiness  so  near,  if  not  to  me? 
Better  afar,  than  nigh  and  yet  not  mine! 
More  blest  is  he  who  ne'er  knew  Happiness, 
Than  he  who  buys  the  knowledge  with  the  loss. 

TIME  :  Not  so,  while  memory  thereof  endures, 
Gilding  life's  desert  with  its  afterglow. 

VITA:    To  live  in  light  of  a  remembered  joy 
Is  through  enduring  dusks  to  mourn  the  sun. 
Whose  eyes  shall  drink  their  fill  of  Happiness 
While  mine  go  starved? 
TIME:  The  clear,  wide  eyes  of  Truth. 

VITA:  Truth!     Truth!     I  love  her  not! 

TIME:  Bestir  thee  then 

To  win  thee  Happiness.     Behold,  are  not 


sc.  i  Vita  43 

The  days  of  all  thy  life  within  thy  hands 
To  mould  them  as  thou  wilt  for  good  or  ill? 
Thyself,  and  naught  outside  thee,  is  thy  fate. 
That  thou  becomest  shapes  thy  destiny. 
Be  strong.     Be  just,  unconquerable,  true. 
Make  Happiness  thine  own. 
VITA  :  So  fair  a  prize 

What  hand  could  choose  but  reach  for,  though 

to  miss? 

Deem  me  not  over-bold,  but  dutiful, 
That  wish  out- leaps  to  action.     Happiness 
Shall  yet  be  mine — Oh,  joy ! — shall  be  mine  own — 
Mine  own!  oh,  joy — joy — joy! 

TIME:  Oh,  blinded  heart 

And  poor!     Oh,   falsest  vision!     Happiness 
Comes  not  at  call,  depends  not  on  desire, 
Matches  no  dream,  to  no  man's  measure  fits. 
Not   they  who  seek  are  they  who  find.     Not 

they 

Who  ask,  receive.     But  they  who  neither  look 
Nor  long  for  guerdon,  they  who  largely  live, 
Freed  from  self's  narrow  shackles  by  a  love 
Broad  as  humanity,  whose  every  thought 
Is  a  white  deed,  for  joy  of  serving  done — 
To  these,  unheralded,  unrecognised 
Save  in  that  inmost  shrine  where  burns  his  light, 
To    these    comes   Happiness,    to    these    brings 

Heaven. — 

Thou  foolish  heart  and  vain !    Pass  on.     Pass  on. 

(Exeunt.) 


44  Vita  ACT  i 

(SCENE  n — VITA'S  apartments.     FAITH,  CARE, 
and  MALICE  winding  wreaths.) 

CARE:   Our  Mistress  tarries. 

FAITH:  Nay,  she  cometh  soon. 

MALICE:  I  '11  leave  off  labour  till  she  nighs. 

What  need 
To  prick  my  fingers  in  her  absence? 

CARE:  Whence, 

That  thou  may'st  idle  must  we  doubly  toil? 
How  think'st  thou,  Faith? 

FAITH:  We  shall  have  double  joy 

In  her  approval  of  the  ended  task. 
Speed  thee,  good   Care.      She    surely   cometh 
soon. 

MALICE:  Wherefore  her  haste,  when  she  may 

stay  and  stuff 
Her  hungry  ears  with  news  of  Happiness? 

CARE  :     O  Heavens !    I  would  I  were  a  queen ! 

MALICE:  Naught  more? 

Plait  thee  a  galling  crown  of  thy  life's  thorns, 
And  wear  them  regally  in  all  men's  sight 
Upon  thy  brow,  in  lieu  of  next  thy  heart ; 
Thus  shalt  thou  ape  Earth's  queens.     To  be 

high-placed, 

Is  to  become  a  puppet  in  a  show, 
Who  but  for  men's   diversion,  moves,  speaks, 

weeps, 

Wearing  its  feelings,  like  its  tawdry  gems, 
Outside  for  coarse-grained  multitudes'  applause. 


sc.  ii  Vita  45 

FAITH  :  Heed  not  when  Malice  mocks.     To  be 

a.  queen 

Is  to  make  sorrow  royal  in  degree, 
And  mirth  most  generous,  since  nations  share  it. 
Why  would'st  thou  be  a  queen? 

CARE:  That  Happiness 

Might  reach  e'en  me.     Methinks  one  only  smile, 
Dropped  on  my  life  like  sunshine  on  a  seed, 
Would  ripen  flowers  to  blossom.     But  a  maid 
So  lowly  born  as  I — how  should  I  dream 
Of  Happiness? 

MALICE  :  Dream  not.     A  pity  't  is 

When  high-strung  hearts  be  joined  to  low-tuned 

lives. 
It  doth  put  Nature  out  of  harmony. 

FAITH:    Nay,  keep  thy  lofty  longings.     They 

are  stars 

To  steer  by  as  we  climb  the  road  to  Heaven. 
I,    too,    have    dreamed    of    Happiness; — such 

dreams ! — 

So  fair  they  made  a  very  day  of  night. 
Such   dreams!     Such    dazzling,    full,    sufficient 

dreams 
I  am  content  in  the  remembering  them. 

MALICE  :  'T  is  a  thin  soul  that  feeds  on  shadows. 

CARE:  Hush! 

Our  Mistress! 

(Enter  VITA.     The  maidens  spring  to  offer  her 
flowers,  and  place  garlands  about  her  dress.) 

VITA:  Haste!     And  ply  your  uttermost 


46  Vita  ACT  i 

Of  skill.     I  would  be  fair  this  day.     A  glass' 

FAITH  (kneeling  before  her  and  looking  lovingly 

up  at  her) :     I  '11  be  thy  glass  to  tell  thee  thou 

art  fair. 
MALICE  (to  VITA)  :    Because    she    thinks    as 

thou  dost,  being  so  true 
A  reflector  of  thyself!     Thy  mirror,  sure, 
Doth  prove  thee  fairest  with  none  other  by. 
CARE  :  Too  pale,  too  wan  thou  art.    And  here  's 

a  tress 
Shall  soon  show  silver  for  its  wonted  gold. 

VITA:  Where?  Where?    Must  I  already  flaunt 

Time's  flag? 
FAITH:   Dear  Lady,  I  will  lay  the  wreaths  so 

close 
Naught  else  may  show. 

VITA  :  Ay,  wrap  me  up  in  bloom. 

Hide  my  poor  faults  with  fragrant  overgrowths. 
Touch  every  blemish  with  such  tender  art 
It  turn  to  beauty,  making  me  more  fair 
For  glory  of  misfortunes  garlanded. 

MALICE  :   Fittest  were  roses  with  their  thorny 

sweets, 
For  such  disguisement. 

VITA  :  Bring  my  richest  robe. 

FAITH  (bringing  mantle) :  Ere  dawns  the  morrow, 

richer  may  this  be 
For  joys  it  shall  to-day  inherit. 

MALICE:  Nay, 

If  garments  keep  the  good  of  bygone  hours, 


sc.  ii  Vita  47 

Then  rags  be  choicest  vestment  for  a  prince. 
CARE  (examining  mantle) :  Here  soon  shall  be  a 
rent.     Here  lurks  a  stain. 

MALICE  :  Where  tears  fell,  likest. 

FAITH  :  The  more  surely  then 

Are  smiles  erelong  to  follow.     Whilst  it  storms, 
May  seers  be  boldest  in  predicting  sun. 

VITA:   My  jewel  case! 

CARE   (turning  over  the  jewels}:    Alas!    Here 
lacks  a  gem. 

VITA     (fastening    on    necklace):     Doth    this 
become  me? 

MALICE:  Troth,  as  dew  the  briar. 

VITA  (fastening  on  different  jewels] :    And  these? 

CARE:   Thou  wilt  o'erload  thyself.     Thy  love 
Will  know  not  if  he  look  on  gems  or  thee. 

VITA  :  That  love  which  doth  not  see  me  in  my 

gems, 

Distinguishing  the  fashion  of  my  soul 
Through  all  the  outward  trickery  of  dress 
And  mummery  of  custom,  holding  these 
As  part  of  me  and  not  disguise  of  me, 
That  love  were  small  worth  having. 

MALICE:  Why,  in  truth, 

If  thou  and  these  thy  jewels  make  but  one, 
Now  art  thou  well  worth  loving. 

VITA:  Prithee,  peace, 

Thou  wasp-tongued  Malice! 

MALICE  :  Heed  !     Thy  love  may  hear, 

And  hold  thy  speech  to  be  such  part  of  thee, 


48  Vita 


ACT  I 


He  choose  not  take  thee  with  it.     (Going)  Ah, 

vain  fool, 

Decking  thy  poor  conceit  with  buds  and  gems ! 
May  Happiness  be  lured  with  baits  like  these? 

(Exit.) 
CARE:    I    doubt    there 's   such    a    thing   as 

Happiness. 

'T  is  but  the  name  of  some  dear,  hopeless  hope 
That  men  do  bind  their  souls  with  when  they 

bleed, 

To  stay  the  bleeding,  though  it  heal  them  not. 

I  '11  think  no  more  on  Happiness.     The  dream 

Hath  sure  no  mating  with  reality.  (Exit.) 

VITA  :  My  heart  turns  chill  with  sudden  doubt, 

as  when 

A  drifting  cloud,  eclipsing  the  sweet  sun, 
Drops  its  cold  shadow  o  'er  a  startled  land. 
O  Faith,  is  verily  the  world  so  void? 
Is  there  no  Happiness  this  side  of  Heaven? 
Does  Death  hold  life's  whole  guerdon?    Speak! 

Oh,  speak! 
FAITH:   Ah,   Lady,  have  I  knowledge  more 

than  thou? 

The  world  is  vast,  and  all  its  vexing  roads 
Round  out  through  darkness  to  an  unseen  goal, 
While  men  grope  here  and  there  with  helpless 

hands, 

Crying:    Lo  this — lo  that — is  Happiness! 
And  clutch  at  strangest  phantoms.     Yet  some 
where — 


sc.  ii  Vita  49 

I  needs  believe  it,  or  the  doubt  would  kill, — 

Somewhere,  e'en  here,  is  a  true  Happiness 

That  true  hearts  find  and  live  by.     The  good 

God 

Withholds    not  all    His    gifts    from  Earth   for 
Heaven. 

VITA  :  O  Faith,  thou  sweetest  voice  to  dumbest 

souls, 

Thou   lantern-light   to  stumbling   feet, — abide, 
Abide  thou  with  me  now  and  evermore! 
(Enter  CARE  and  MALICE.) 

MALICE:    Lo,  Happiness  approacheth! 

VITA:  Ah,  then,  go! 

Leave  me!  Go  all!  I  fain  would  be  alone 
To  dream  that  dream  ecstatic  which  precedes 
The  waking  of  attainment. 

FAITH:  Dream  in  peace.         (Exit.) 

CARE:     Nay,   rouse   thee   from   thy   trance! 

Is  Happiness 
So  lightly  thine, — so  swiftly,  surely  won? 

VITA  :  Let  the  fear  lie.   Why  fret  the  living  hour 
With  dread  of  unborn  moments? 

MALICE:  Blind,  oh,  blind! 

To   Truth,   not  thee,   he  comes.     Since  when 

proved  Truth 
So  mean  a  rival? 

VITA:  Truth  is  hidden  deep. 

Not  his  to  find  her. 

MALICE:  But  who  seeks  for  Truth, 

Is  lost  to  thee. 


50  Vita  ACT  i 

VITA:  Yet  sure  he  goes  not  far. 

CARE:    Thou  hast  deep  drunken  at  Faith's 

fount.     Beware 
Thy  hope  imperil  not  thy  caution. 

MALICE  :  Ay, 

No  prayer  can  stay  him  an  he  choose  to  go; 
Yet  if  he  go,  no  hope  may  follow  him. 

VITA:   Ah,  if  he  leave  me,  could  my  charmed 

feet 

Refrain  from  following  after  in  the  trace 
However  faint  and  far  of  Happiness? 

MALICE:    There  is  no  path  so  all-intolerable 
As  that  we  tread  where  Happiness  hath  been 
And  is  not. 

VITA:     Prithee    keep    thy    bitter    thoughts 
For  thine  own  soul's  digesting,  and  go  hence! 
Why  augur  loss  of  what  not  yet  I  have? 
What  though  the  dream  prove  vain  ?     It  is  most 

sweet ; 

And  I  will  feast  upon  it  while  it  lasts, 
Nor  brook  starvation  in  its  turn  the  worse! 
I   will   not   hearken   more.     Away!     Go!     Go! 

CARE:   I  go.     But  not  for  long.          (Exit.) 

MALICE  :  I  will  be  nigh.     (Exit.) 

VITA  (alone) :     Now  beauteous  dream,  return ! 

Now  steep  my  soul 

In  Earth's  divinest  rapture — Happiness 
Not  fully  come,  but  speeding  on   bright  wings 
Across  the  boundless  desert  of  desire, 
So  swiftly  there  's  but  space  to  say :  I  wait ! 


sc.  ii  Vita  51 

So  surely  there  's  no  doubt  to  mar;    yet  still 
Too  far  to  surfeit  with  possession;    like 
That  royal  hunger  heralding  a  feast, 
Which  waxes  poorer  for  the  feeding  o'  it. 
Ah,  very  heart  of  ecstasy — to  know 
Fulfilment  nigh,  yet  still  anticipate! 

(Enter  HAPPINESS.) 
HAPPINESS:  Not  here! 
VITA  (trembling):   O  Heavens!     Can  this  be 

Happiness? 
HAPPINESS:    Am  I  so  strange  to  look  upon 

that  one 
Should  know  me  not?     I  pray  thee,  where  is 

Truth? 

VITA:   Nay,  hold!     How  know'st  thou  Truth? 
HAPPINESS  :  Through  love  of  her. 

VITA:  How  earnest  thou  to  love  her? 
HAPPINESS  :  Seeking  her, 

I  loved  her. 

VITA:  Thou  wilt  find  her  not. 

HAPPINESS:  I  shall. 

VITA:     Then    stay!     Give    o'er    the    quest! 

For  I  am  she. 
HAPPINESS:    Soil  not  thy  sweet  mouth  with 

so  sad  a  lie. 
Farewell. 
VITA:    Stay!    Stay!     How  knowest   thou   I 

lie? 

HAPPINESS:  Because  thou  art  not  Truth. 
VITA:  How  canst  thou  know? 


52  Vita  ACT  i 

Nor  thou  nor  any  ever  has  seen  Truth. 
Am  I  not  fair  enough? 

HAPPINESS:  Too  fair  by  far, 

In  outward  ornament. 

VITA  (flinging  of  jewels):    0  Cruel!     What! 
Am  I  not  sweet  enough? 

HAPPINESS:  Too  sweet  by  far. 

With  borrowed  beauty. 

VITA  (tearing  off  flowers):    0  Inexorable! 
Am  I  not  rich  enough? 

HAPPINESS  :  Too  rich  by  far 

In  all  that  is  not  thee. 

V 'IT A  (throwing  off  mantle):    Inhuman!    Look! 
Look  on  me  now!     Am  I  not  bare  enough, 
And  poor  enough  and  plain  enough  for  Truth? 

HAPPINESS:     Too  plain,  too  poor,  too  bare. 

Truth  in  herself 

Lacks    nothing.     Thou    in    everything    lack'st 
Truth. 

VITA:      Truth!    Truth!     I    hate    her!    And 

she  is  not  fair! 
For  I  have  seen  her — seen  she  is  not  fair ! 

HAPPINESS:   Thou  hast  seen  Truth? 

VITA:  Oh,  long — oh,  long  ago, 

In  days  when  still  I  knew  there  was  a  God, 
And  that  the  stars  meant  Peace  and  sometime 

Heaven. 

And  then  I  saw  her,  and  she  then  was  fair, 
But  not  so  fair  I  long  desired  her; 
And  soon  I  did  with  loathing  put  her  far, 


sc.  ii  Vita  53 

And  turn  mine  eyes  from  her  and  speak  her  not, 
And  hate  her  with  worst  hatred. 

HAPPINESS:  Oh,  forsworn 

The   eyes    that   having   looked  on  Truth,  see 

aught, 

Love  aught  besides  save  Truth  for  ever  more! 
Lo,  I  have  seen  her  not ;  yet  shrined  within 
Mine  inmost  soul  her  holy  image  lies, 
Peerless,  transcendent,  perfect,  holding  me 
From  thought  and  breath,  save  thought  and 

breath  for  her. 
Where  bideth  she? 

VITA:  I  know  not.     Time  long  since 

Concealed  her,  and  I  wearied  not  to  seek, 
Cared  not  to  know.     What  matters  it  to  me, 
Who  have  one  passion  only  in  my  breast, 
A  riotous  love,  beating  through  tortured  veins — 
A  fierce  mad  flame — a  lurid  gluttonous  fire 
Of  devastating  glory — a  white  heat 
Of  living  death  that  robes  me  as  for  Heaven 
In  blinding  light,  to  leave  me  at  the  last 
A  thing  of  ashes  in  a  world- wide  waste! 

HAPPINESS:     I  pity  thee.     And   so  farewell 
again. 

VITA:    Nay,  nay!    oh,  stay!    oh,  leave  me 

not — not  now — 

Dear  Happiness!     One  little  moment  more 
Let  me  but  look  on  thee,  let  me  but  fill 
Mine  eyes  so  full  of  the  rare  sight  of  thee, 
They  hold  thee  in  thine  absence  uneffaced ! 


54  Vita  ACT  i 

HAPPINESS:     Peace   come   to   thee.     And   a 

third  time  farewell. 
VITA  (kneeling):    O  God!    O  God!    May  I 

entreat  Thee  not? 

Must  I  see  Happiness  depart  from  me, 
Nor  fling  such  mighty  prayers  out  on  the  way 
He  dare  not  pass  them?     Let  me  bind  him  down 
With  prayers,  with  linked  petitions  laid  so  close 
He  cannot  leave  me! 

HAPPINESS:  Peace,    poor   Vita,    peace! 

No  prayer  so  perfect  is,  no  faith  so  strong 
It  can  lay  lasting  hold  on  Happiness. 
I  go.     Forbear  thy  weeping.     Tears  are  wings 
That  speed  my  going.     Fare  thee  well. 

(Exit.) 

VITA:  Gone!     Gone! 

And  all  my  heart  cries  out:    Forever! — What? 
Weep  not? — I  will  pierce  Heaven  with  my  cries! 
Will  storm  God's  Throne  with  clamorous  appeal, 
Compelling  mercy  for  my  wretchedness! 
O  God,  was  it  so  much  I  asked  of  Thee 
Thou  could'st  not  grant  it  to  a  lifetime's  suit? 
Would  it  have  beggared  Thee  of  Happiness 
Bestowing  but  this  single  boon  I  craved? 
Hear!     Hear!     Or  art  Thou  deaf,  and  Heaven 

so  far 
All  prayers  fall  short  of  Thee?      Did'st  Thou 

concede 

Me  being,  but  that  I  might  curse  the  gift? 
Can  Thy  omnipotence  do  naught,  save  stamp 


sc.  ii  Vita  55 

Self -consciousness     of    frailty     on     me?     Nay, 
Not  so  I  learned  to  know  Thee — oh,  not  so! 
They  told  me  God  meant  Mercy,  Patience,  Love, 
And  infinite  Compassion, — not  Despair! — 
Not  a  divine  Inexorability 

Rebellious  souls  should  beat  and  break  against 
In  weak  antagonism! — O  God — O  God — 
Forgive  the  hatred  of  a  broken  heart ! 
Forgive  the  madness  of  a  misery 
That    knows    not    what    it    speaks!    Forgive! 
Forgive ! 

(Enter  MALICE,  FAITH  and  CARE.) 
MALICE  :   I  heard  thee  from  afar.    What  mean 

thy  cries? 

FAITH  (raising  up  VITA)  :    Oh,  my  loved  mis 
tress,  what  hath  come  to  thee? 
CARE    (picking   up  jewels}:     Shattered    and 

bruised  beyond  repair! 
VITA  :  Ay.     Ay. 

Like  hearts  that  soared  too  high,  and  falling, 

broke. 
FAITH  (gathering  up  the  flowers) :    Nay,  see, 

these  yet  are  sweet. 

VITA  :  Like  scattered  hopes 

That  shall  not  bloom  again  through  all  the  years ; 
Yet  sweet — ay,  perilous  sweet  unto  the  end. 
FAITH   (lifting  the  mantle] :    And  this ;    thou 

yet  canst  wear  it. 

VITA  (dashing  it  off) :  Never  more ! 

There  leave  it  to  be  trodden  underfoot! 


56  Vita  ACT  i 

Never  again  shall  I  stand  decked  in  gems 
And  flowers,  and  plume  me  on  my  sumptuous- 
ness! 

The   dream   is    broken,    and   the   charm   mis- 
wrought. 
Poor  flowers  (lifting  them).     So  slight?  so  frail? 

that  yet  me-seemed 
Fit  snares  for  Happiness!     Poor  futile  gems! 

(Raising  them.) 

So  valueless?     Oh,  ineffectual  wealth! 
(Spurning  them  with  her  foot.) 
How  worthless,  ah,    how  vain — how  impotent 
To  win  me  Happiness! 

FAITH:  Nay  then,  dear  Heart, 

Is  Happiness  too  far  to  follow? 

VITA  :  Ay. 

Faint  hearts  are  leaden-soled.     He  is  too  far. 
MALICE:    Too  far.     Nor  ever  is  too  near  to 

miss. 
FAITH:    0  Mistress,  would'st  thou  seek?    I 

go  with  thee. 
VITA:    Ah  me,  but  whither  go — but  whither 

turn? 

How  follow  footsteps  that  have  left  no  trace? 
MALICE:     He  sure  goes  free  of  heart  that 

treads  so  light ! 

VITA:   In  quest  of  Truth  he  went. 
FAITH  :  Then  seeking  Truth, 

Must  we  find  Happiness. 
CARE:  The  way  is  far. 


SC.  II 


Vita  57 


FAITH:    But  Time  shall  lead  us,  and  an  end 

must  be. 
VITA:    Ay,  let  us  go.     Although  the  way  be 

long, 

Were  failure  bitterer  at  life's  blunted  end 
Than  at  its  keen  beginning?     There  our  chance! 
Better  to  risk  content  on  the  poor  hope 
Of  winning  more,  than  stay  ourselves  on  less. 
Go.     Go.     Make    ready.     Long    the    journey 

looms. 


ACT  II 

(SCENE  i — A  forest.     Night.    HAPPINESS  alone.) 
HAPPINESS:    O  Truth,  where  art  thou?     In 

the  whole  wide  heaven 
Is  there  no  polar  star  that  points  to  thee 
Immovably,  through  all  of  lapsing  time? — 
No  magnet  in  the  whole  vast  universe 
To  draw  to  thee  through  trackless  distances? 
O  Truth,  hast  thou  no  voice  to  call  to  me 
Athwart  the  dark,  that  I  come  where  thou  art? 
No  clue  to  aid  me — no  firm  woven  thread 
To  guide  me  through  life's  starless  labyrinth? 
Truth,  answer!     Art  thou  living  whom  I  seek? 
Or  art  thou  but  a  name — a  phantom  thing 
To  lure  men  to  destruction  with  false  show? 
Nay!  Nay!  Thou  livest!  Every  star  that  sends 
Its  conquering  ray  across  night's  black  abysm — 
Each  sea  that,  torn  with  infinite  desire, 
Stretches  its  seeking  arms  out  toward  the  shore — 
Each  storm  that  sweeps,  magnificent  and  bold, 
With  fringe  of  lightning,  scimitar  of  rain 
And  crown  of  massive  darkness,  like  a  king 
Across  the  humbled  land — each  summer  eve 
That  pours  its  stillness  and  its  angel  calm 
58 


ACT  ii-sc.  i  Vita  59 

Upon  the  restless  pulses  of  the  day — 

Each  is  thy  witness,  each  thine  evidence, 

Speaking  in  utterance  distinct  and  clear 

To  the  blest  soul  that  loves  thee,  blest  enough 

In  that  it  love  thee,  though  it  find  thee  not. 

But  I  will  win!    No  height  so  dizzy  is, 

No  precipice  so  sheer,  gulf  so  profound, 

Gloom  so  intense  that  it  shall  fright  me  back! 

With  love  to  light  me,  reason  for  a  staff 

And  God  for  Guide,  how  fail  of  Truth's  award? 

Courage,  faint  heart!     Wing  thy  slow  feet  with 

prayer, 
Lift  thy  bowed  head,  and  onward  to  the  goal! 

(Exit.) 

(Enter  TIME,  VITA,  and  COURT.) 
HISTORY:   It  hath  been  said  of  him  he  passed 

by  here. 
CARE:    Oh,   sorry  guide,   who  present   hope 

would  hale 

From  so  dead  past!     Hath  ever  it  been  told 
That  Happiness  returned  the  way  he  went? 
VITA:    Methought  I  saw  him  but  a  moment 

since. 
TIME:  Thou  should'st  have  held  the  moment. 

Fled,  may  Time 

With  utmost  swiftness  no  more  reach  thereto. 
FAITH:    Then  let  it  pass.     Another  comes  as 

sweet. 

IST  COURTIER:    Whither  went  Happiness? 
2D  COURTIER:  This  way! 


60  Viti 


ACT  II 


30  COURTIER:  No,  this! 

2D  COURTIER  :    Sure,  here  are  tracks  of  him. 
3D  COURTIER:  Sure,  here  he  stayed. 

IST  COURTIER:    Surest  of  all,  here  is  he  not! 
TIME  :  Pass.     Pass. 

COURTIERS:    Which  way? 
TIME:  Forward.     I  turn  not  back. 

VITA:  Ah  me, 

Could' st  thou  but  conjure  from  the  dead  that 

hour 

When  I  beheld  him,  though  he  was  not  mine, 
Should  I  lack  more? 

FAITH:    Dear  Mistress,  take  thou  heart! 
Thou  yet  shall  see  him,  though  the  night  be 

drear, 
And  the  way  long  that  bring  thee. 

MALICE:  Long!    Long! 

TIME:  Pass. 

IST  COURTIER:    Hold,  hold!   methinks— 
20  COURTIER:  I  would  make  sure — 

30  COURTIER:  One  glance— 

TIME:    Pass. 

(Exit  COURTIERS  slowly). 

HISTORY  :  Stay !     The  day  is  not  yet  written— 

TIME:  Pass. 

(Exit  TIME  and  HISTORY,  the  chorus, 

too,  moving  off  as  it  sings.) 
CHORUS  : 

So  they  pass,  so  they  pass 
The  sweet  moments,  alas! 


SC.  I 


Vita  61 


Tiny  seeds  of  Eternity 

Summoned  to  birth; 
From  the  fields  of  Infinity 

Falling  to  earth. 
So  they  pass,  so  they  pass, 
Like  a  breath  on  the  glass, 

Like  a  thought  in  a  dream, 

Like  a  meteor's  gleam, 
Holding  all  mortal  time 
As  a  word  holds  a  rhyme, 

As  a  heart  holds  desire. 
Yet  though  nothing  is  done  in  them, 
Nothing  is  won  in  them, 
Nothing  begun  in  them 

Ere  they  expire, 
Will  they  bide  with  us  longer 
For  prayers  that  wax  stronger? 

Nor  darkness  crawl  aftei 

Through  tears,  or  through  laughter? 
Nay,  death  will  delay  not. 
The  moments  will  stay  not. 

Amort  and  adrift 
As  blown  leaves  in  a  lane, 

Evanescent  and  swift 
As  the  lightning  through  rain, 

So  they  pass,  so  they  pass, 

While  men  cry  out,  alas! 

(Exit  CHORUS.) 

VITA:    Oh,  woe!     Oh,  woe!     What  treasured 
joys  are  theirs 


62  Vita  ACT  ii 

Who  thus  bewail  life's  passing?     Time  is  long, 
And  Grief  is  slow,  and  Death  is  tardy-paced 
To  him  whose  years  hang  on  his  neck  like  beads 
That  he  needs  tell  off  one  by  one  in  turn, 
With  prayers  and  moans  and  scourgings  unto 

blood, 
Ere  he  may  break  his  fast. 

MALICE:  With  bitter  herbs ! 

CARE  :   Longest  is  life  to  him  who  counts  the 

time 

Betwixt  his  labour  and  the  recompense; 
To  him  who  pays  the  bread  of  yesterday 
With  this  day's  toil;    to   him  whose  bursting 

brain 

Travails  in  sleep,  and  works  across  its  dreams, 
And  knows  no  Seventh  Day  from  year  to  year. 
The  weeping  doth  forget  his  grief  in  sleep. 
The  hungry  dreams,  and  sitteth  at  a  feast. 
For  sick  men  there  grow  drugs  to  dull  the  pain. 
But  for  the  anxious  man,  the  man  of  cares, 
Nature  provides  no  anodyne. 

MALICE:  Save  death. 

VITA  :  All  lives  are  long.     The  babe  that  lives 

an  hour, 
Hath  too  much  time  to  weep  in. 

MALICE:  Not  enough 

To  learn  to  smile  in. 

FAITH:  Nay,  the  soul  that  sees 

The  far,  pure  end  of  its  creation — fair 
To  longing  sight  as  flower  on  lifted  stalk 


SC.  I 


Vita  63 


Grown   high  above  the  marsh-land    whence   it 

sprang — 

That  soul  delights  in  life,  and  finds  time  scant 
For  full  achievement  of  allotted  powers. 

VITA:    They  must  be  either  young  or  far  in 

years 

Who  joy  in  life;   the  young  because  they  still 
See  Earth  athwart  the  light  they  brought  from 

Heaven ; 

The  old,  because  at  closing  of  their  day 
Death  lends  his  sunset  glow  to  life's  grey  dome, 
As  last  relief  to  long  monotony. 
But  he  who  is  not  young,  and  ah,  not  old, 
Who  living  through  youth's  exquisite  deceits 
Has  reached  the  Desert  of  Reality, 
And  feels  its  arid  winds  upon  him,  sees 
Its  white  hot  dust,  its  cruel  nudity, 
Yet  knows  no  outcome  save  the  path  that  leads 
Across  its  dreariness  to  far-off  Death — 
Shall  such  an  one  love  Life? 

FAITH:  'Tis  piteous 

How  men  forget  a  thousand  present  joys 
Remembering  a  single  pain  that  pricked, 
And  overlook  a  myriad  flowers  in  bloom 
For  grief  of  one  bruised  bud!     Be  not  thou  so. 
Nor  think  thyself  elected  from  thy  mates 
To  royal  wretchedness.     For  Sorrow  keeps 
No  separating  throne  where  one  may  sit, 
Crowned  with  distinction  of  surpassing  pain, 
To  rule  his  kind  by  might  of  suffering. 


64  Vita  ACT  ii 

In  sorrow  all  are  equal,  though  men  flaunt 
Their  martyrdom  before  the  world,  or  wear 
Their  sackcloth  hidden  under  festal  robes. 
Then,  prithee,  smile  as  thou  wert  wont  to  smile! 
Doth    Nature    not  go  through  her  round  the 

same 

From  year  to  year,  and  find  as  many  flowers 
To  deck  this  Spring  with  as  she  found  the  last? 
Yet  she  hath  wept  between  times.     So  thou,  too, 
Sweet  Lady,  cast  thy  dead  woe  off.     Be  glad. 

VITA:  Can  one  be  happy,  without  Happiness? 

FAITH:  Ay.     Thou  hast  looked  on  Happiness. 

Enough. 
Thou  hast  henceforth  the  memory  thereof. 

MALICE:   Why,  if  thy  heart  be  set  on  Happi 
ness, 

Pursue  thou  not  the  search?     I  kno'w  of  one 
Who  sure  will  aid  thee,  though  all  others  fail. 

VITA:    Thou  dost?     And  whom? 

MALICE  :  That  ancient  Sorceress, 

Who  with  her  magic  and  her  muttered  charms 
Holds  half  the  known  world  spellbound. 

VITA  :  Who  is  she 

Thus  potent? 

MALICE:       Hope. 

VITA:  Bring  me  to  her  straightway. 

FAITH  :   O  Lady,  pause !     I  know  her.     She  is 

old 

And  potent  truly,  but  may  play  thee  false. 
Not  all  who  seek  of  Hope  win  Happiness! 


sc.  ii  Vita  65 

CARE:   I  know  Hope  not.     The  very  name  is 

strange. 
MALICE:    And  hadst  thou  sooner  known  her, 

thou  wert  now 

Less  age- worn.     She  hath  wondrous  mysteries 
That,  rightly  used,  do  keep  one  young  for  aye. 
VITA:  Where  lives  she? 

FAITH:  0  sweet  Mistress,  trust  her  not! 

VITA:    Why   now,   what   frights   thee?     She 

who  conquers  Time 

Must  be  a  right  rare  witch!     Bring  me  to  her. 
MALICE:    Lady,  this  way. 

(Exeunt  VITA  and  MALICE.) 

FAITH    (going):     Alas!     Hope's    very    name 

Hath  wrought  its  spell !     Needs  must  I  follow  her. 

(Exit.) 

(SCENE  II — A  heart-shaped  cave.     HOPE  bend 
ing  over  a  caldron.) 
HOPE  (sings): 

Stir !     Stir !     The  fire 's  ablaze ! 
Throw  in  Fancy's  pungent  sprays! 
Sweet  deceits  and  drugs  that  daze ! 
One  part  guile,  and  three  parts  craze — 
Hope  mixes  well — well — well! 

Stir !    Stir !    Skim  off  a  tear ! 
Pluck  away  a  scorching  fear ! 
Strain  a  memory  out  here! 
Lay  a  spicy  maybe  near ! 

It  seasons  well — well — well! 


66  Vita  ACT  ii 

Stir!     Stir!     The  caldron  steams! 
Pour  in  visions !     Drop  in  dreams ! 
Fling  in  ecstasies,  and  gleams 
Of  a  joy  that  madness  seems! 
It  worketh  well — well — well! 

Stir !     Stir !     There  's  time  to  spare ! 
Here  a  wish  and  there  a  prayer 
Make  a  charm  that  well  shall  wear! 
Though  long  weeping  wash  it  bare, 
It  holdeth  well— well— well! 
(Enter  VITA  and  MALICE.) 
MALICE:   Yonder  is  Hope,  the  Sorceress. 
VITA:  That,  Hope? 

So  old  is  she? 

MALICE  :  Ay,  old  as  birth  of  man. 

VITA  :    She  hath  strange  eyes. 
MALICE:  They  look  out  into  mist. 

VITA  :  She  hath  a  marvellous  expression.  See. 
Is  't  Joy,  or  Dread,  or  Pain,  or  Wonderment, 
Or  uttermost  Desire? 

MALICE:  All.     It  is  Hope. 

VITA  :  Will  she  be  wroth  if  I  bespeak  her? 
MALICE  :  Nay, 

None  hears  more  willingly.     Call  thou  on  her, 
And  I  will  wait  without.  (Exit.) 

VITA:  Hope!    Hope! 

HOPE:  I  hear. 

Hope  never  sleeps. 

VITA:  I  need  thee,  Hope. 


sc.  n  Vita  67 

HOPE:  Ay.     Ay. 

All  need  me. 

VITA:  But  my  need  transcendeth  all. 

My  frustrate  life  is  done — abortive — dead. 
Its  stark  days  hang  along  Time's  shrivelled  stalk, 
Blasted  and  unfulfilled,  like  frozen  buds; 
And  I,  while  still  I  make  my  moan,  am  not. 

HOPE:   I  will  breathe  life  into  thy  life. 

VITA:  O  Hope, 

What  were  such  gift  but  keener  pain?     Give 

more, 
Or  less. 

HOPE  :   I  will  fill  up  thy  heart  with  fire 
That  Death  alone  shall  quench. 

VITA:  Nay,  more,  0  Hope! 

Would 'st  thou  consume  me  with  an  inward  flame, 
Nor  give  it  aught  to  feed  on? 

HOPE:  It  shall  feed 

Upon  itself,  yet  thus  consuming,  grow. 

VITA  :  What  dost  thou  grant  me  but  an  appetite 
Beyond  this  earth's  appeasing?     Give  me  more, 
Else  shall  I -die  of  longing's  ecstasy, 
And  slow  despair  of  gain. 

HOPE:  What  is  despair? 

Longing  I  know,  but  know  not  of  despair. 

VITA  :  Teach  me,  too,  to  unlearn  it ! 

HOPE:  Where  is  Hope, 

Is  room  for  no  despair.     Dost  thou  want  more? 

VITA:     This — this — but   this!     Oh,    give   me 
Happiness ! 


68  Vita  ACT  ii 

HOPE:    The  sum  of  all  wants — Happiness. 

Ay.     Ay. 

Life's  last  best  secret.     Earth's  impossible. 
The  finite's  infinite!     Poor  fool.     Poor  fool. 

VITA  :    Canst  help  me  not  ? 

HOPE  :  Yea,  I  can  blind  thine  eyes 

So  thou  shalt  think  thou  graspest  all  of  Heaven 
With  but  the  upward  stretching  of  a  hand. 
Yea,  I  can  bind  such  sandals  to  thy  feet 
That  thou  shalt  walk  o'er  sword-blades  rood  on 

rood 

To  pluck  a  nettle,  nor  shalt  feel  the  pain. 
Yea,  I  can  teach  such  bluntness  to  thine  ears 
That  thou  shalt  hear  no  sound  'neath  God's 

great  sun, 
Save  the  mad  beatings  of  thy  maddest  heart! 

VITA:    Kind  Heaven,  protect  me  from  such 

gifts,  O  Hope! 
Hast  thou  but  these? 

HOPE  :  Nay,  others.     I  have  balm 

To  pluck  the  sting  from  heart-stabs.     Drugs  I 

have 
Whereby  grief  sleeps,  and  weakness  is  made 

strength, 

And  fear  engenders  courage.     I  have  charms 
To  lure  the  dying  back  to  life,  to  keep 
Hearts  young  for  ever,  glorify  the  dark, 
And  wreathe  dead  lips  with  smiles. 

VITA  :  Canst  do  so  much 

Thou  surely  hast  some  magic  yet  unspent 


sc.  ii  Vita  69 

That  shall  restore  me  Happiness  again. 

HOPE:    What  is  thy  Happiness?     Age  names 

it  Youth. 

Youth  names  it  Folly;   Folly,  Ignorance, 
And  Ignorance,  Supremacy.     Poor  soul! 
But  peace!     Thou  shalt  find  Happiness  again. 
VITA  :  Dost  promise  it  ?     0  Hope,  I  live  anew ! 
And  then? 

HOPE:    Peace,  peace!     What  is  thy  Happi 
ness? 

VITA:    A  winged  immortal. 
HOPE:    Take  with  thee  this  weed  (giving  it) 
Wherewith  if  thou  anoint  his  eyes  but  once, 
He  sees  no  more  to  fly.     (Sings  :) 

Stir !     Stir !     Skim  off  a  tear ! 
Pluck  away  a  scorching  fear! 
Strain  a  memory  out  here! 
Lay  a  spicy  maybe  near ! 

It  seasons  well — well — well ! 
VITA:  He  loves  me  not. 

What  gain  I  though  he  fold  his  wings?     For, 

blind, 
How  see  to  love  me? 

HOPE:  Love  stark  madness  is. 

Shed     then     these    petals     o'er     him     (giving 

blossom) .     They  shall  clear 
His  sight   to   lay  his  blindness  on  his  brain. 
(Sings:) 

Stir !     Stir !     The  caldron  steams ! 
Pour  in  visions !     Drop  in  dreams ! 


70  Vita 


ACT  II 


Fling  in  ecstasies,  and  gleams 
Of  a  joy  that  madness  seems! 

It  worketh  well — well — well ! 
VITA:    But  if  he  see  again,  yet  having  wings 
And  no  more  reason,  how  keep  him  mine  own? 
HOPE  :   O  senseless  soul !     Then  lay  thou  hold 

on  him. 

With  the  first  touch  of  thine  attaining  hand 
Shall  Happiness  become  Reality. 
Canst  thou  ask  more? 

VITA  :  Then  let  me  die  for  bliss ! 

HOPE:    Then,  rather,  curse  not  Hope's  be- 
devilment.   (Sings:) 
Stir !     Stir !     The  fire  's  ablaze ! 
Throw  in  Fancy's  pungent  sprays ! 
Sweet  deceits  and  drugs  that  daze ! 
One  part  guile  and  three  parts  craze — 

Hope  mixes  well — well — well ! 
VITA  :  Lo,  how  thou  changest  as  I  look  on  thee, 
O  Hope !  Thou  growest  young  and  fair,  most  fair, 
Most  sweet  and  pleasant  to  the  eye  and  soul. 
HOPE  (sings) : 

Stir!     Stir!     There  's  time  to  spare! 
Here  a  wish  and  there  a  prayer 
Make  a  charm  that  well  shall  wear ! 
Though  long  weeping  wash  it  bare, 

It  holdeth  well — well — well! 
(HOPE  disappears  in  the   smoke  of  the  caldron. 
The  flame  flashes  up,  dies  suddenly  out,  and  all 
is  dark  and  still.) 


sc.  ii  Vita  71 

VITA  (in  terror):  Faith!    Faith!    Where  art 
thou? 

(Enter  FAITH,  running.) 
FAITH:          Here,  for  ever  here! 
VITA  (clinging  to  her):    Leave  thou  me  not! 

Hope  was  here,  and  is  gone, 
And   the   dead   night   breathes   blackness   and 
despair ! 


ACT  III 

(SCENE— The  forest.    After  midnight.    VITA  and 
the  COURT.) 

VITA  (to  HISTORY)  :  Hast  seen  him? 

HISTORY:    Ay,  we  have  seen  trace  of  him. 

VITA:   Is  that  all  one  with  seeing  Happiness? 

FAITH  :  Glimpses  there  have  been  of  his  wings 
afar. 

IST  COURTIER:   Methought  I  saw  his  form, 
but  touched  him  not. 

VITA:  How  seemed  He? 

ist  COURTIER  :  Hung  with  golden  ducats  round ; 
Heavy  with  gold;    a  moving,  yellow  sheen; 
A  dazzling  pyramid  of  wealth. 

2D  COURTIER:  Why  nay, 

Not  so  he  showed  when  once  in  some  swift  dream 
I  hailed  him  passing.     He  was  fair  and  fine, 
But  pale  and  wan,  and  had  a  famished  look. 
Men  called  him  Fame,  methought. 

30  COURTIER:  And  when  I  dreamed, 

He  wore  a  crown — bespattered,  yet  a  crown, 
And  held  a  sceptre  bare  of  garnishment, 
But  studded  close  with  drops  of  ruby  blood, 
And  had  a  grand  strong  look.     Men  named  him 
Power. 

72 


ACT  in  Vita  73 

Oh,  he  did  draw  me  with  that  magnet  look! 
I  would  have  given  substance,  honour,  love — 
All — to  possess  him!     But  he  vanished  swift, 
And  I  came  never  nigh  enough  again 
To  be  assured  't  was  he. 

HISTORY  :  He  hath  a  shape 

Baffles  defining,  now  comes  masked  as  War, 
And  now  as  Tyranny. 

CARE:  I  know  him  not; 

But  to  my  weary  longing  he  should  look 
A    dreamless,    ageless    Sleep,    with    slumbrous 

eyes, 
And  lips  soft-closed  on  speech. 

MALICE  :  Delusions  all ! 

Delusions ! 

FAITH:   I,  too,  dreamed  of  him,  and  dear 
The  dream,  e'en  if  he  not  resemble  it — 
A  gift  of  God,  whatever  the  vision  be. 

VITA  :  But  I  have  seen  him.     And  he  is  the  one 
Desirable  of  life — life's  one  Supreme. 
And  I  have  lost  him!     Endless  shows  the  way, 
And  hard  the  road  beneath  untutored  feet ! — 
The  more  unsufferable  that  he  once 
Hath  passed  this  way. 

2D  COURTIER  (to  IST  COURTIER)  :  Look,  friend, 

if  thou  first  come 

To  Happiness,  then  give  me  of  thy  gold, 
And  I,  when  I  reach  fame,  will  render  thee 
The  grace  of  having  thus  befriended  one 
In  his  obscurity. 


74  Vita  ACT  in 

3D  COURTIER  (to  IST  and  2D  COURTIERS)  :  And 

friends,  if  luck 

Be  yours,  spare  thou  me  of  thy  pelf,  and  thou 
Loan  me  repute,  and  I,  when  come  at  last 
Into  mine  own,  will  hold  ye  unforgot. 

MALICE:    He  will  remember  to  cut  off  your 

heads 
Belike! 

CARE    (anxiously):    It    groweth   late.     How 

longer  search? 
HISTORY:    If  I  do  find  him,  I  will  close  my 

book 
And  write  no  more. 

30  COURTIER   (to  HISTORY):    First,  prithee, 

note  my  name. 
Petty  the  rule  ignored  of  History ! 

20  COURTIER:    And   mine,   too,   write,   lest 

Fame's  bay  on  my  brow 
Wither  at  death. 

IST  COURTIER:  And  my  poor  name  inscribe. 
The  richest  is  not  rich,  if  all  not  know  't. 

MALICE:    Nor  rich  is  he,  than  whom  one 

richer  lives. 
CARE:   And  I,  should  chance  wing  Happiness 

my  way, 

Will  ask  no  more  than  sleep's  beatitude. 
But  not  for  me  is  rest,  ah,  not  for  me! 
They  who  on  laggard,  unconsenting  feet 
Are  driven  from  the  lovely  vale  of  Peace 
To  the  chill  highlands  of  Anxiety, 


ACT  in  Vita  75 

May  nevermore  revisit  that  green  plain; 
But  like  the  bare  tree  on  the  mountain  top, 
Set  as  a  beckoning  sign  for  clouds  and  storms 
And  tossed  by  tireless  winds  while  all  else  sleeps, 
For  ever  after  wake  and  watch  and  dread. 

(Enter  TIME.) 
TIME:    Who  says  for  ever?     Mine  alone  the 

word. 

MALICE:   What  is  not  thine,  save  Happiness! 
TIME:  On!    On! 

CARE:    O  Heavens,  where  then  to  look  for 

Happiness ! 
Where,  where  is  Happiness! 

MALICE:  Beyond  the  grave. 

(Exeunt  CARE  and  MALICE.) 

TIME:   Who  loiters  that  hath  my  command? 

On!    On! 

IST  COURTIER:   I  will  get  gold  yet!       (Exit.} 
2D  COURTIER:  And  I  yet  win  fame! 

(Exit.) 

30  COURTIER:  And  I  will  yet  have  power,  or 

die  therefor!  (Exit.) 

FAITH:    Did  men  seek  Goodness  with  a  tithe 

that  zeal 

Wherewith  they  labour  after  Happiness, 
Who  is  there  but  should  save  his  soul  alive! 

(Exit.) 
TIME:     The    moment    passes.     Wanes    the 

night.     On!     On! 
For  ever  on ! 


76  Vita  ACT  in 

HISTORY:   Oh,  tide  with  no  reflux!        (Exit.) 

TIME  (to  VITA)  :  Thou  movest  not? 

VITA    (suddenly   returning  to   TIME):     Great 
Father,  show  me  Truth ! 

TIME:  Truth?     Truth?     Pray  what  would'st 

thou  of  Truth  at  last, 
Who  thy  life  long  hast  held  apart  from  her, 
Accounting  her  a  thing  of  evil? 

VITA  :  Nay, 

I  have  not  loved  her  since  I  first  knew  choice. 
Nor  do  I  now  desire  her.     Nay,  oh  nay. 
Save  that  by  her  I  may  win  Happiness, 
I  ne'er  should  seek  her — ne'er  should  ask  to 

know 

In  what  dark  spot  and  far  she  lies  consigned, 
So  from  her  luminous  vision  and  deep  gaze 
I  stood  for  aye  secure !    Yet  what  last  test 
Could  fright  me  from  the  search  for  Happi 
ness? 

I  would  walk  barefoot  over  blazing  coals, 
Of  poisoned  disappointments  prick  me  full, 
Starve  —  thirst  —  freeze  —  burn,  be  slaughtered 

piecemeal — ay, 

Make  life  an  hourly  hell — all,  all,  and  more, 
For  that  poor  chance  of  winning  Happiness 
In  some  far  day  I  may  not  live  to  see ! 
Wherefore,  if  Truth  bring  me  to  Happiness, 
Dare  I  face  even  Truth.     I  pray  thee,  then, 
Give  up  thy  long  held  secret !     Where  is  Truth? 

TIME:  How  may  Truth  help  thee? 


ACT  in  Vita  77 

VITA:  Happiness  seeks  Truth. 

He  loves  her.     Who  beloved  of  Happiness 
Will  turn  him  a  deaf  ear?     Hid  ne'er  so  long, 
Hid  ne'er  so  deep,  yet  must  he  come  to  her, 
Truth  yet  reveal  herself  to  him  who  loves. 

TIME:   And  what  would'st  thou  against  it? 

VITA:  Alas,  what! 

Thy  words  outstrip  my  thought.     I  but  devise, 
Knowing  so  surely  Happiness  must  come 
Where  Truth  may  be,  there  to  conceal  myself 
And  bide  his  coming.     So  shall  I  once  more 
Behold  him,  once  more  know  him  near  to  me, 
And  for  the  rest — Hope  aid  me ! 

TIME:  Hast  thou  Hope? 

Then  to  gainsay  were  idle.     Do  thy  will. 
Who  lists  to  Hope,  hears  never  voice  but  hers. 

VITA:    Bring  me  to  Truth  then.     Oh,  how 

thou  art  slow 

When  wishes  fly  before  thee,  how  art  swift 
When    wishes    follow!      Tell    me — where     is 
Truth? 

TIME  (indicating  a  cave  in  front  of  which  VITA 
is  standing) :  Beside  thee. 

VITA    (starting   back):     Nay,    not    here!     So 

close  at  hand! 
So  swiftly  reached! 

TIME  :  Not  far  need  be  their  search, 

Who   seek  her  truly.     Yonder  darksome  way 

Leadeth  to  Truth  and  Light.     Heaven  comfort 

thee.  (Exit.) 


78  Vita  ACT  m 

(ViTA  draws   back  from  the  cave,  and  watching, 

presently  sees  HAPPINESS  approaching.) 
VITA  :  Ha,  none  too  soon !     Lo,  hither  through 

the  gloom, 

Led  by  the  lantern  of  his  love  and  trust, 
Comes   Happiness.     Now   Hope,   befriend  me, 

Hope! 
(She  conceals  herself  among  the  trees.    HAPPINESS 

draws  near.) 
HAPPINESS:  Truth!    Truth!    No  answer  still? 

Thou  art  not  far. 

I  feel  thy  holy  heart-beats  through  the  hush, 
And  know  thou  must  be  near.     How  come  to 

thee? 

The  midnight  is  unmooned :  the  forest  dense : 
The  way  unsignalled,  and  I  wander  long. 
Where  art  thou?      I  have  asked  the  stars  for 

thee — 
They  whose   pure  eyes  earth's  darkest  secrets 

pierce. 

I  asked  thee  of  the  winds,  whose  odorous  wings, 
Soft  with  the  scents  of  summer's  flower-breaths, 
Or  salt  with  foam-flecks  torn  from  scattering 

seas, 

Incessant  sweep  the  earth  from   pole  to  pole. 
I  asked  thee  of  the  streams,  whose  silver  feet, 
Stayed  by  no  fetter,  hindered  by  no  bar, 
Search  earth's  remotest  depths.      I  asked  all 

things : 
But  each  gave  answer:   Truth  is  everywhere. 


ACT  in  Vita  79 

And  so  I  come  no  nearer  thee.     O  Truth, 

I  weary  for  thee !     I  have  called  so  long 

My  voice  grows  faint.     Weak  Nature  hath  no 

strength 

Wherewith  to  mate  her  strongest  wills.     Awhile 
Let  me  lay  by  my  will,  until  I  rest 
That  which  though  least,  yet  rules  my  greater 

part. 

(He  sinks  upon  the  ground.} 
Night  lies  upon  mine  eyelids  like  a  flower, 
Humid  and  sweet,  endrowsing  all  my  soul; 
And  sleep  hath  flung  her  lasso  round  my  limbs. 
They  move  no  more,  though  shadowy  shapes 

bend  close, 
Wave  languorous  arms,  and  beckon  me  beyond. 

(He  falls  asleep.     VITA  appears.) 
VITA:    Yea,  Sleep  hath  come  to  him.     And 

with  Sleep,  I, 

Albeit  he  called  me  not.     Ah,  generous  Sleep, 
Who  wresting  all  else  from  him,  makes  him  mine ! 
But  that  I  lose  him  not  when  choice  returns, 
I  thus  obey  thee,  Hope ! 

(She  passes  the  weed  across  his  eyes.) 

Now  Love,  dear  Love — 

Thou  only  Love  of  all  mine  uncrowned  life — 
Awake !     Awake ! 

(She  draws  back  as  he  starts  to  his  feet.) 
HAPPINESS    (groping   as   if   blind):     I    hear. 

(listens).     Methought  one  called. 
How  blindly  dark  the  night!     I  cannot  see. 


8o  Vita  ACT  in 

Who  was  it   called?     (Listens.}     Where  is  the 
voice  that  called? 

0  Truth,  how  reach  thee  through  Day's  huge 

eclipse? 

1  am  distraught   with   darkness.      Speak,  oh, 

speak, 

Thou  who  didst  speak  before !     I  listen.     Speak ! 
VITA:   I  called  thee,  Happiness. 
HAPPINESS:  Who  art  thou?     Who? 

I  cannot  see  thee  if  I  know  thy  face. 
Howknow'st  thoume?      Who  art  thou?     Speak 
again. 

0  God,  can  it  be  Truth?     Speak!    Art  thou 

Truth? 

VITA:     Prove  me,  and  see. 

HAPPINESS:    How  should  one  hope  to  find 
Pathway  through  so  impenetrable  Black? 
Art  thou,  or  art  thou  not?     O  God,  give  light, 
That  I  may  know  if  this  be  she ! 

VITA:  Hush!    Hush! 

1  am  she.     I  am  Truth. 

HAPPINESS:          Thou?    Thou?    Art  Truth? 
O  Heaven,  break  open !     Let  one  only  ray 
Fall  on  me  from  above  to  clear  mine  eyes, 
That  I  may  know  if  this  be  very  Truth 
Or  basest   Falsehood.     How   distinguish  thee? 
In  so  vast  gloom,  who  should  give  judgment  rein? 
Oh,  this  surpasses  weakness — worsens  death — 
This  is  despair! 

VITA:  Fear  not. 


ACT  in  Vita  81 

HAPPINESS:  Nay,  wert  thou  Truth, 

How  should  I  fear?     It  is  my  fear  I  fear. 
Doubt   proves  thee  false.     Wert   thou  indeed 

that  Truth 

I  thought  thee,  should  my  heart  not  credit  thee, 
And   thou  to  my  soul's  vision  stand   revealed 
Through  all  the  dimness  of  my  senses'  sight? 
Is  Truth  not  brighter  than  the  moon  and  stars 
And  daytime's  sun?      How  should  it  then  be 

dark 

Where  Truth  is?     Nay.     Thou  art  not  Truth. 
VITA:  I  am. 

HAPPINESS:     Nay.     For   my   soul   disclaims 

thee.     Thou  art  not. 
I  feel  Truth  near,  yet  know  thou  art  not  she. 

(Turns  away.) 
VITA:    O  Hope,  Hope,  help  me!    See!     He 

goes !     He  goes ! 

But  still  I  have  a  charm.     (She  tears  the  flower 
from  her  breast.)     Now,  thou  blind  Seer, 
Hater  of  all  fair  Falsehoods  for  the  sake 
Of  one  lost  Truth,  behold  me  with  thine  eyes. 
Look  on  me,  for  my  beauty  cleave  to  me, 
If  not  for  Truth's  sake! 
(She  flings  the  flower  at  him;  it  breaks  over  him  in  a 

shower  of  petals.) 
HAPPINESS  :  Ha !     Once  more  the  day ! 

0  Heavens,  I  see!    And  lo,  there  is  no  Truth! 
Great  God,  have  mercy  on  my  maddened  soul! 

1  stand  alone  in  a  blank  universe, 

6 


82  "Vita  ACT  in 

Groping  for  Truth,  and  reaching  only  Lies! 
Oh,  give  me  back  my  blindness,  gracious  Heaven ! 
Better  the  doubt  than  the  despair!     And  thou 
Who  callest  thyself  Truth,  how  hate  I  thee 
For  taking  on  thyself  so  sweet  a  name 
To  cover  so  foul  wrong !     There  is  no  Truth, 
No  Truth  in  all  the  world!     It  was  a  dream — 
A  heavenly  dream — and  thou  hast  marred  it! 

Fool- 
Fool  that  I  am!     I  have  gone  mad  for  Truth, 
And  Truth  is  not,  nor  aught  but  madness  is! 
O  God,  what  frenzy  's  this?     My  being  doth 
Now  uncreate  itself  and  turn  to  void 
If  Truth  be  not!     Truth!    Truth!     Oh,   save 

me,  Truth! 

(He  rushes  madly  toward  the  mouth  of  the  cave.) 
VITA  (springing  to  him):   Hope,  thou  de 
ceiver,  help,  or  he  is  lost! 
(She  catches  the  fringe  of  his  mantle.) 
Not  so  shalt  thou  escape  me,  Happiness! 
With  these  my  hands  I  grasp  thee,  keep  thee, 

thus, 

Making  thee  mine  by  very  force  of  will ! 
Thou  shalt  not  leave  me !     Never !     Nevermore ! 
HAPPINESS:    Lo,  reason  with  thy  touch  re 
turns.     Thank  God. 

And  thank  thee,  Vita.     Truth  shall  yet  be  mine! 
VITA  (looking  at  him  in  fear) :   Who  art  thou 

whom  I  hold?     Art  Happiness — 
That  Happiness,  whom  only  thus  to  clasp 


ACT  in  Vita  83 

Once  was  my  dream  of  Heaven?     Art  thou  that 
he? 

(She  relinquishes  her  hold.) 
Thou   hast    betrayed   me,    Hope — undone   me, 

Hope! 

Dearer  than  the  possession  the  desire ! 
Sweeter  the  dream  than  the  reality ! 
(She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands.    Enter  TIME 

and  COURT.) 

TIME:  Yonder  is  Happiness. 
3  COURTIERS:  That,  Happiness? 

Not  so  I  dreamed  him! 

MALICE  :  Is  it  naught  but  this 

We  made   such  moan   for  and   such  toilsome 

search  ? 

CARE:   Alas,  he  rests  me  not! 
FAITH  (joyfully) :  0  Happiness, 

Is  't  given  me  to  see  thee,  and  so  nigh — 
To  know  thee  henceforth  what  thou  rightly  art, 
Distinguished  from  thy  baser  semblances ! 
HISTORY:    Can  it  be  yon  is  Happiness?     He 

seems 

Unlike  all  things  e'er  named  or  dreamed  as  he! 
FAITH:   Therein  his  blessedness.     What  mind 

conceived 
Aught  so  divine? 

ALL   (discontentedly):    And  is  this  what  we 

sought? 

This  what  we  laboured  for?     Not  this!     Not 
this! 


84  Vita  ACT  in 

(They  draw  back,  murmuring.     TRUTH  appears 
veiled  at  the  entrance  of  the  cave.     HAPPINESS 
flings  himself  at  her  feet.} 
HAPPINESS:     Truth!     Truth!     'T  is     thou! 

Thank  God,  't  is  Truth  at  last ! 
TRUTH  (to  HAPPINESS):    Thou  know'st  me? 
HAPPINESS:    Verily!     With  my  whole  heart, 
Albeit  confounded  by  thy  loveliness! 
TRUTH  (to  VITA)  :  Knowest  thou  me? 
VITA  (sullenly) :  Yea.    Yea.    I  know  thee  well. 
I  love  thee  not,  yet  must,  shamefaced,  confess, 
Veiled  though  thou  art,  thy  features  hid  from 

me, 
I  know  thee,  Truth,  and  dare  not  cry:   Begone! 

TRUTH  (to  the  others) :   And  know  ye  me? 
(She  turns  toward  them  slowly,  lifting  her  veil,  and 
a  light  streams  suddenly  out  from  where  she 
stands,  illumining  the  entire  stage.) 
HISTORY:  By  all  most  sacred,  no! 

If  yon  be  Truth,  then  hath  my  pen  thus  long 
Been  dipped  in  falsehoods,  and  indited  lies! 
MALICE:     It    hath    grown    strangely    light! 

We  do  look  grey, 

Misshapen,  monstrous,  seen  in  so  white  glare. 
CARE:    And  thou  the  greyest,  ugliest  of  all! 
Myself  shows  noble  by  the  side  of  thee. 
2D  COURTIER  (to  IST  COURTIER):    I  saw  thee 

never  rightly  till  this  hour. 
Out  on  thee  for  a  miser!  Avarice 
Leaves  no  room  in  thy  soul  for  Happiness. 


ACT  in  Vita  85 

IST  COURTIER   (to   30   and  20):    What   has 

come  over  ye?     In  Truth's  strong  light 
Thou  'rt  but  a  Traitor !  a  weak  Rhymster  thou ! 
(TRUTH  still  looks  at  them  with  lifted  veil,  and 

confused,  all  the  court  withdraws.) 
TIME:     0    miserable    world!    O    frightened 

fools, 

Stripped  a  brief  space  of  your  lifelong  disguise! 
Draw  back!     Not  yet  dare  men  envisage  Truth! 
Ay,  Truth,  I  know  thee!     Thou  wast  given  me 
In  trust,  and  I  have  hid  thee  from  the  world, 
Though  some  bold  souls  have  dared  a  glimpse 

at  thee, 

And  died  or  maddened  for  thy  sake;   and  some 
Have  hated  thee  for  thy  surpassing  grace, 
While  some  have  prayed  for  thee  on  bended 

knees, 
But  with  shut  eyes,  lest  sight  of  thee  should 

blast  them! 
Not  yet  thine  hour,  0  Truth!    But  soon  shall 

dawn 

A  day  when  I  may  bring  thee  forth  unveiled, 
Thy  beauty  to  all  earth  made  manifest, 
God's  ultimate,  and  highest  revelation. 
Till  then,  pass,  pass,  ye  anxious  ages,  pass! 

(Exit  TIME  slowly.) 
FAITH  (falling  on  her  knees) :   Till  then  thank 

Heaven,  who  hath  accorded  us 
The  knowledge  that  thou  livest,  and  the  will 
To  love  thee,  long  for  thee,  aspire  to  thee, 


86  Vita  ACT  in 

If  need  be  die  for  thee,  O  rare  sweet  Truth ! 
TRUTH  (to  HAPPINESS)  :  Thou  hast  long  sought 

me.     Come.     I  am  thine  own. 
HAPPINESS   (clasping    her  in  his  arms) :    Oh, 
holy  moment !  joy  vouchsafed  of  Heaven ! 
Lo,  Truth  and  Happiness  are  one  for  aye! 
(TRUTH  drops  her  veil.     The  light  gradually  fades 
away  and  twilight  succeeds,  as  HAPPINESS 
and  TRUTH  disappear  together  in  the  cave. 
VITA  and  FAITH  are  left  alone  upon  the  scene. 
VITA  throws  herself  upon  her  face  on  the 
ground.) 
VITA:  Farewell!     Farewell!    Farewell!     Now 

break,  my  heart. 

I  would  have  done  with  life,  who  thus  have  done 
With  Happiness.     O  cruel  Hope  and  false! 
Oh,  bitterest  end!  supremest  wretchedness! 
Oh,  masterwork  of  woe! 

FAITH:  Hush,  thee,  oh  hush! 

What  life  is  there  but  hides  the  memory 
Of  some  dead  day  that  once  held  Happiness? 
What  more  than  this  hath  Fate  for  mortal  soul — 
The  sweet  fleet  glimpse  of  some  transcending 

bliss, 

With  tardy  knowledge  of  a  living  Truth 
Beyond  our  present  reach?     Enough,  enough 
Only  to  follow  after ;  oh  enough, 
Seeking  for  Truth,  to  know  that  some  far  day 
We  shall  find  Truth,  and  with  Truth,  Happi 
ness! 


ACT  in  Vita  87 

(ViTA  ceases  weeping,  and,  lifting  her  head  to 
FAITH'S  shoulder,  clings  to  her,  comforted. 
The  day  broadens.) 
CHORUS  (behind  the  scenes') : 

O  Life!     0  Life!     0  Life! 

What  art  thou,  pray? 
Desire  and  Fate  at  strife 

For  a  brief  day. 
A  sowing  and  a  reaping; 
A  losing  and  a  keeping; 
A  laughing  and  a  weeping 
Along  the  way. 

O  Life!     0  Life!     O  Life! 

What  art  thou,  pray? 
A  fleeting  moment  rife 

With  deeds  that  weigh  ; 
A  breaking,  or  a  binding; 
A  forgetting,  or  a  minding; 
A  scattering,  or  a  finding 

Now  for  alway ! 

(The  stage  is  illumined  with  a  bright  light  coming 
from  TRUTH'S  cave,  and  the  curtain  falls 
with  the  last  line  of  the  song,  leaving  VITA  and 
FAITH  with  their  arms  entwined.) 


Baldur  the  Beautiful 


TO 

EDWARD   HUBBARD   LITCHFIELD 


THE  ARGUMENT 

THE  subject-matter  is  furnished  by  the  story 
of  Baldur,  as  told  in  the  Prose  Edda. 

In  Asgard,  the  city  of  the  gods,  are  assembled 
the  chief  Scandinavian  deities,  with  Odin,  their 
father  and  king,  who  from  his  throne  overlooking 
space  catches  occasional  disturbing  glimpses  of 
Muspell,  the  final  Heaven,  whence,  upon  the 
Judgment  Day  of  the  gods  (Ragnarok),  is  to 
come  the  annihilation  of  the  existing  hierarchy. 
Baldur,  sometimes  termed  the  Apollo  of  the 
North,  one  of  Odin's  sons — the  ^Esir, — is  the 
god  of  light  and  love,  or  perfection.  He  is 
warned  in  dreams  of  impending  peril,  and  Odin 
endeavours  to  save  him  by  deputing  his  mother, 
Frigga,  to  demand  an  oath  of  the  universe  that 
nothing  will  do  him  harm.  All  take  this  oath 
except  the  mistletoe,  exempted  by  Frigga  on 
account  of  its  weakness.  By  means  of  the 
mistletoe,  therefore,  Baldur  meets  his  death, 
through  the  knavery  of  Loki,  the  destructive 
principle,  better  known  as  the  God  of  Fire. 
Consternation  immediately  prevails.  Valhalla 
being  sacred  to  those  slain  in  battle,  Baldur's 
93 


94  Baldkir  the  Beautiful 

soul  goes  perforce  to  Hel,  and  Hermod,  another 
of  the  &sir,  mounted  on  Odin's  wonderful 
eight-legged  horse,  is  sent  thither  to  beg  his 
brother's  ransom. 

After  a  terrible  journey,  bravely  endured, 
Hermod  reaches  Hel.  He  there  obtains  from 
its  queen,  Hela,  Loki's  abhorrent  daughter, 
promise  of  the  surrender  of  Baldur's  soul,  upon 
the  condition  that  everything  throughout  the 
worlds  shall  first  weep  his  death.  If  a  single 
creature  withhold  its  tears,  Baldur  is  to  remain  in 
Hel,  for  perfect  beauty  and  goodness  are  to  be  won 
only  through  perfect  love  and  unanimous  desire. 

Hermod  returns  to  Asgard  with  renewed  hope. 
Odin  issues  imperative  command  that  all  shall 
weep  for  Baldur,  and  an  unprecedented  lamen 
tation  follows.  Loki  only,  disguised  as  the  hag 
Thaukt,  stubbornly  refuses  to  mourn.  Hela's 
condition  being  thereby  violated,  Baldur's  soul 
must  remain  unredeemed  till  Ragnarok.  Upon 
that  future  day,  as  foreseen  by  Odin  alone,  a 
battle  will  be  fought  in  which,  after  incredible 
marvels,  all  the  gods,  including  Odin  himself, 
will  be  slain.  The  universe  will  then  be  purified 
by  an  overwhelming  conflagration,  and  there 
will  be  created  a  new  Earth  and  a  new  Heaven, 
wherein  Baldur  is  to  live  for  ever.  Ragnarok 
being,  however,  still  far  distant,  the  world, 
bereft  of  all  that  Baldur  represents,  continues 
unconcerned  on  its  way. 


THe  Argument  95 

This  story,  dropped  like  a  jewel  among  the 
grosser  legends  of  the  North,  is  surely  meant  to 
typify  more  than  the  yearly  return  of  summer, 
as  in  the  Greek  myths  of  Adonis  and  of  Per 
sephone,  to  which  it  is  sometimes  likened. 
Baldur  stands  for  that  perfection  of  love  which 
of  itself  is  light  and  happiness,  and  universal 
woe  is  the  unavoidable  consequence  of  his  with 
drawal  from  the  earth.  As  he  can  be  recalled 
only  through  unanimous  desire,  a  single  un 
loving  soul  necessarily  defeats  the  scheme  for 
the  world's  redemption.  Not  therefore  until 
humanity's  complete  regeneration,  can  love  and 
happiness  again  reign  supreme. 


PRONUNCIATION 


g  always  hard,  like  g  in  go. 
j  always  like  y  in  yard. 
6  always  like  oe  in  Goethe. 


As'-gard. 

Bifrost-Bl'-frost. 

Fenrir-Fen'-rer. 

Fensalir-Fen'-sa-ler. 

Gjallar-Ge-yal'-lar. 

Gjoll-Ge-yoll'. 

Heimdall-Hlme'-dall. 

Idun-E-doon'. 

j6rmungard-Y6r'-mun-gard. 

Loki-Lo'-kee. 

Mid'-gard. 

Mimir-Mim'-er. 

Mod'-gur-dur. 

Mus'-pell. 

Njord-Ne-y6rd'. 

Rag'-na-rok. 

Sleipnir-Sllpe'-ner. 

Tyr-Teer. 

Vigrid-Vig'reed. 

Ygg'-dra-sil. 


96 


I 
Death  of  Baldur 


97 


I 

THE  DEATH  OF  BALDUR 

LONG  aeons  past,  ere  yet  was  count  of  time, 
At  Asgard,  silver  city  of  the  gods, 
Bright-built,  midway  among  the  blazing  suns, 
By  Urdar  Fount,  'neath  mighty  Yggdrasil, 
The  Ash-tree  Yggdrasil,  whose  branches  stretch 
As  high  as  Heaven,  whose  roots  strike  deep  as 

Hel, 
The  MBIT  held  their  court. 

There,  on  a  throne 

Set  higher  than  the  highest  leap  of  thought, 
Was  Odin,  the  All-Father,  king  of  gods; 
Whence,  at  a  glance,  his  vast  omniscient  eye, 
Midgard,  the  realm  of  mortals,  overswept 
As  't  were  a  graven  tablet  at  his  feet ; 
Thence,  too,  from  Heaven's  most  southern  edge, 

betimes 

Caught  the  swift  flash,  intolerably  bright, 
Of  a  flaming  falchion,  where,  by  Gimli's  Hall, 
Gold-roofed,  Surtur,  the  Mighty,  patient  sat, 
Guardian  of  Muspell,  ageless  Land  of  Light — 
Muspell,  the  supreme  Heaven,  whence  at  the  last 
Should  flow  the  devastating  fires  of  death. 
99 


ioo  Baldxir  tKe  Beautiful 

And  Odin,  the  All-Father,  inly  sighed, 
By  that  fell  gleam  foreseeing  Ragnarok, 
The  Dusk-Day  of  the  gods. 

A  space  below, 

His  sons,  the  lesser  gods,  the  ^Esir,  sat ; 
First  Thor,  the  Thunderer,  with  belt  unloosed, 
His  giant  mallet  like  a  feather  weight 
Reclined  across  his  knee;   him  following,  Njord, 
Who  held  the  master  secret  of  the  seas 
And  drove  the  winds  in  leash ;  intrepid  Tyr, 
Who  lost  his  bold  right  hand  'twixt  Fenrir's  jaws ; 
Hermod  the  Swift,  whose  foot  no  dart  outsped; 
Bragi  the  Silver- Mouthed,  whose  spouse,  Idun, 
Stored  the  gold  apples  whereof  fed  the  gods 
When  hoary  age  o'ertook  them,  to  renew 
The  lustre  of  their  Spring ;   Silent  Vidar, 
Sandalled  with  noiselessness ;    Hodur  the  Blind, 
Stronger  than  seven ;   Frey ,  the  God  of  Peace, 
And  Heimdall  the  White  God,  the  Vigilant, 
Warder  of  Heaven  and  of  the  Gjallar  Horn, 
Who  heard  the  grass-blade  split  the  buried  seed, 
And  saw  by  night,  a  score  of  leagues  away, 
Clear  as  by  noon ;  there,  too,  dread  God  of  Fire, 
Loki,  the  false  of  tongue,  falser  of  heart, 
The  fair-faced  sire  of  monsters — of  the  wolf 
Fenrir,  of  Hela  and  of  Jormungard ; 
And  there,  best,  brightest,  wisest,  of  them  all 
The  dearest  loved,  amid  his  brother  gods 
Baldur  the  Beautiful,  surnamed  the  Good, 
Moved,  dazzling,  like  a  flame. 


THe  DeatH  of  Bald\ir  101 

What  favoured  tongue, 
Wonted  to  godly  measures,  should  avail 
To  tell  his  loveliness,  his  strength,  his  grace — 
Baldur  the  Beautiful?     No  whitest  flower 
So  white  was  as  his  brow.     No  snow  that  lay 
New  fallen  in  the  sun  so  lucent  showed. 
Moulded  of  light  he  was.     His  radiant  soul 
Shone  through  him  star-like.     Day  broke  when 

he  came, 

And  Night  was  not,  nor  memory  of  gloom. 
As  silver  rays  trembling  on  twilight  seas 
Follow  the  flying  moon,  so  shadowed  him 
A  Heaven  of  love  and  joy,  and  the  ^Esir  all, 
Save  one,  the  Dread  Destroyer,  held  him  dear 
Beyond  their  breath  of  being. 

Ages  thus 

Uncounted  passed  in  Asgard,  where  the  gods 
Each  day  held  council,  dauntless  galloping 
Their  fiery  coursers,  moonstone  white,  uncurbed 
Over  the  Bridge  Bifrost,  the  Rainbow  Bridge 
That  spanned  the  cloudy  gulf  'twixt  Earth  and 

Heaven. 

And  there,  the  convocation  at  an  end, 
Supine  beneath  deep-branching  Yggdrasil, 
Content    they   hearkened,    while,    to    pleasure 

them, 

Baldur  the  Beautiful  sang  songs  more  sweet 
Than  his  who  moved  the  stones  of  Thebes  in  line, 
Or  his  whose  loftier  lyre  built  lofty  Troy. 
Of  middays  Baldur  sang — of  hot  noontides 


102  Baldur  the  Beautiful 

Thrilled  through  with  pulsing  gold;  of  silver 

streams 

Set  thick  with  diamonds  that  mocked  the  sun; 
Of  ivory  blossoms  gleaming  'mid  the  green 
Like    drifted    summer    snow;     of    marshalled 

clouds — 

The  sunset's  standard  bearers;    of  white  gulls 
Like  jewelled  arrows  shot  across  the  blue; 
Of  stars ;   of  mellow  moons ;   of  all  things  bright 
And  warm  and  glad .     Entranced  the  ^Esir  heard ; 
And  as  a  hummingbird  above  the  bloom 
Light  poised  on  murmuring  wing,  with  accurate 

thrust 

Of  rapier-beak  straight  to  its  luscious  heart 
Gathers  its  one  sweet  drop,  so  breath  by  breath 
They  drank  the  honey  of  each  dulcet  song. 
Then,  on  a  day,  there  broke  across  the  strain, 
Marring  its  ecstasy,  discordant  notes 
Of  conflict  and  of  darkness,  that  on  ears 
Used  but  to  joy  struck  wonder,  as  when  rain 
Drops  from  an  undimmed  sky.     Thus  Baldur 

sang: 

DAYBREAK 

Arouse  thee,  0  Day,  and  reconquer  thy  world! 
Night's    challenging   banners,    triumphant    un 
furled, 

Float  wide  on  the  somnolent  breeze. 
The  valleys  lie  muffled  and  misty  in  sleep. 


THe  DeatH  of  Baldvir  103 

Grey  shadows,   like  dream-ghosts,   uncertainly 

creep 

0  'er  the  face  of  the  shuddering  seas. 
Arouse  thee !     Undo  the  enchantments  of  Night ! 
With  tremulous  pulsings  and  breathings  of  light, 

Pursue  as  he  fainting  retires. 
Pluck  the  reddening  rays  from  thine  opaline 

quivers ! 
Slant  them  up  at  the  last  of  the  stars  where  it 

shivers 

In  the  ash  of  its  faltering  fires. 
Unfasten  thy  curtainings,  fold  upon  fold. 
Set  wider  thy  floodgates  of  billowy  gold. 
Lo,  the  lark  is  awake.     He  is  calling  thy  name 
From  the  quivering  heights  where  the  clouds  are 

aflame, 

Ere  follow  the  full-throated  choirs. 
The  tops  of  the  listening  trees  are  athrill 
With  desire  for  the  stir  of  thy  step  on  the  hill, 
For  thy  quickening  glance  o'er  the  hush  of  the 

plain. 
Come,  crowned  and  engirdled  with  uttermost 

splendour, 

Thy  glorious  soul  undismayed  to  surrender 
In  a  breathless  outburst  of  magnificent  pain. 
Re-kindle  the  worlds  with  thy  limitless  light. 
Stand  forth  in  unparalleled  lustre  and  might, 
Every  fear  to  dispel,  every  shadow  to  slay, 
0  invincible  Day ! 


104  Daldxir  tKe  Beautiful 

Then  peerless  Odin,  bending  from  above, 
Asked  whence  those  melancholy  notes  of  dread 
And  gloom  came,  darkling,  to  the  canticle? 
And  Baldur,  all  unwilling,  yet  compelled 
By  that  vast  eye  that  had  his  soul  in  bonds, 
Of  haunting  visions  told  that  teased  his  rest, 
Dire  dreams,  foretelling  peril  even  of  life, 
Whispered  by  Elves  of  Darkness  in  the  hours 
When  Sleep  unlocks  the  inner  ear  to  sounds 
Day  overspeaks — dreams  ill  beyond  concept, 
Eclipsing  the  sweet  light  of  all  his  noons 
With  hideous  portents,  laying  malignant  spell 
Athwart  life's  secret  tides.     Blood  ebbed,  breath 

failed 
Before  his  menaced  doom,  though  whence  the 

threat, 

Or  what  the  unnatural  skill  should  compass  it, 
He  nothing  knew. 

The  JEsir,  sore  perplext, 

Pondered  the  monstrous  tale.     As  when  a  wind 
Strikes  the  calm  sea,  wrinkling  its  satin  plane 
With  casual  ripples  that  confusedly 
Quiver  and  cross,  till  met  and  intermixt, 
In  gradual  waves  the  tangled  lines  press  on 
Under  one  impulse  goaded,  each  from  each 
So  gathering  impetus  that,  at  the  last, 
Grown  into  billows  swollen  to  giant  strength, 
From  shore  to  shore  they  plough  the  ocean's 

heart — 
Thus  dread  of  boded  harm  to  Baldur,  first 


TKe  DeatH  of  Baldxir  105 

Uneasily  the  ^sir's  senses  stirred, 
Then  waxed  to  full  possession. 

Now  again 

Spake  Odin  the  All-Father,  king  of  gods ; 
And  as  through  angry  mutterings  of  storm 
The  solemn  roll  of  thunder  breaks  afar, 
Resolving  all  sounds  else  to  silence,  so 
His  voice  fell  o'er  them,  and  they  hushed  to  hear. 

Thus  he  decreed;    that  straightway  should  be 

had 

From  fire,  air,  water,  ether,  iron,  stone — 
From  Earth  and  every  ore  within  her  keep — 
From  all  that  crawled,  or  walked,  or  flew — from 

all 

That  being  had  on  land,  in  sea,  or  air, 
In  each  and  every  star — from  all  wherein 
Flowed  blood,  stirred  sap,  coursed  ichor — yea, 

from  all 
That  moved  or  moved  not,  breathed  or  breathed 

not,  was 
Or  was  not — oath  that  none  would  work  him 

harm, 

Baldur  the  Beautiful.     Thus  should  his  days 
Be  free  from  motived  ill.     And  since  of  all 
Love's  manifested  fashionings,  motherhood 
Most  unalloyed,  most  flawless,  swiftest  was 
To  see  and  do,  nor  spare  itself  in  doing, 
The  mission  this  commandment  to  proclaim 
Accorded  should  be  Frigga — her  who  bore 


io6  Daldvir  tHe  Beautiful 

With  gladsome  throes  to  Odin  this  his  son, 
Baldur,  the  best  beloved. 

The  ^Esir  heard 

Rejoicing,  while,  as  ice  melts  under  noon, 
Their  fear  went  from  them.     Then,  as  fallen 

leaves 

In  drear  dead  ranks,  whipped  by  a  sudden  gust, 
Swirl  from  the  ground  instinct  with  winged  life, 
So  swept  they  forth  on  that  behest,  to  seek 
The  goddess  in  her  dwelling — Fensalir, 
Built  of  red  gold,  roofed  o'er  with  silver  shields — 
Breathless  o'ersprang  the  threshold,  breathless 

told 

Their  message  where  she  sat  serene  and  still, 
Her  face  the  face  of  perfect  motherhood, 
Her  deep  eyes  glowing  with  love  satisfied 
And  full.     Ere  yet  the  rush  of  words  was  done, 
Her  heart  had  sucked  it  dry  of  argument, 
Leaving  but  sterile  sounds.     And  lo !  before 
Their  anxious  eyes  could  look  again,  the  place 
Was  bare  of  her  as  of  a  light  blown  out, 
And    she    had  touched   the  extremest  of  the 

stars, 

Bent  on  her  wondrous  task.     So  swift  of  wing 
Is  mother-love. 

Then  Baldur  sang  of  her 

This  slender  song — for  that  which  fills  the  heart 
Must  voice  itself,  or  turn  to  heaviness — 
Though  fain  his  insufficient  lute  had  found 
A  fuller  measure,  fitted  to  the  theme. 


The  DeatH  of  Baldkir  107 

FRIGGA 

Great  Mother-Heart,  one  with  infinity, 
And  old  when  stars  were  young, 

Though  all  the  gods  together  sang  of  thee, 
The  best  were  still  unsung. 

The  surge  of  myriad  seas  is  in  thy  veins. 

Thy  rhythmic  pulses  beat 
Harmonious  with  Heaven's  eternal  strains. 

Its  winds  are  in  thy  feet. 

Ruthless  as  Fate  thou  art ;  a  fierce  typhoon 

When  worlds  thy  path  defy; 
Yet  tender  as  the  touch  of  summer  moon 

Where  sleeping  lilies  lie. 

Oh,  love   transcendent,    vast    as  breadth   and 
length 

Of  space  beyond  the  spheres, 
And  mighty  with  the  garnered  grace  and  strength 

Of  all  the  mingled  years ! 

As  o'er  the  land  'twixt  widest  east  and  west 

The  wings  of  Day  are  spread, 
So  life  lies  folded  to  thine  ample  breast, 

Nourished  and  comforted. 


The  weighty  oath  thus  had  and  Baldur  free, 
Once  more  was  joy  in  Asgard.     There,  for  sport 
Meet  for  high  mirth,  yet  more  to  honour  him 
Naught  now  might  harm,  in  laughter  and  in  love 


io8  Baldxir  the  Beautiful 

His  brother  gods  set  Baldur  in  their  midst, 

A  mark  against  their  weapons'  seasoned  skill. 

"Stretch  forth  thine  arm,"  cried  one,  "that  I 

may  speed 

My  lance  between  thy  fingers . "  "  Stand  secure , ' ' 
Another  cried.  "This  cunning  stroke  of  mine 
Shall  lift  yon  lock  from  thy  resplendent  brow." 
"Hold  fast!"  cried  yet  a  third.  "My  sword 

shall  cleave 

The  shadow  from  thy  body. "  Thus  they  tried 
Their  various  worth,  and  where  by  chance  they 

missed 

Their  purposed  goal,  the  weapon  fell  on  him 
Harmless  as  leaf  on  pool,  or  mist  on  flower. 
And  Baldur 's  smile  shone  o'er  them  like  a  star. 

One  only  was  there  'mid  the  jocund  throng 
Who  loved  not  Baldur — Loki,  false  of  tongue, 
Falser  of  heart.     Doth  Night  love  Day?     Doth 

Hate 
Love  Love?     Rage  shook  him  as  his  sharpened 

blade 

Shivered  and  brake  against  that  shining  breast, 
Nor  left  a  scar  to  point  how  true  the  aim ; 
And  hurled  he  rock  an  Ajax  might  have  doomed, 
It  fell  as  light  from  that  uplifted  brow 
As  't  were  a  shaken  dewdrop.     Blind  with  wrath 
That  like  red  coals  upon  his  eyelids  lay, 
He  hastened  thence,  put  off  his  godly  form 
And  tricked  him  as  a  woman  bent  with  years; 


The  DeatK  of  Baldxir  109 

So  sought  out  Fensalir  where  Frigga  sat 
Serene  and  still,  with  eyes  that  looked  afar 
And  saw  but  what  was  good. 

"Know'st  thou,"  he  said, 
"The  ;Esir  hold  their  concourse?" 

"Ay.     What  then?" 

Asked  Frigga,  and  her  voice  was  like  a  chime 
Of  silver  bells  rung  in  the  eventide. 

"Lo,  this,"  he  answered  her.     "A  prodigy. 
Their  darts  they  fling  at  Baldur — nay,  forsooth, 
Naught   leave  untried,   whate  'er  the   weapon 

chance — 

With  vigour  of  the  best,  and  varied  aim, 
Yet  harm  him  not." 

"Ay  ay,"  the  goddess  said; 
And  her  face  lightened  like  the  sunlit  sea. 
"Naught  lives  may  harm  him,  for  I  have  the 
oath." 

"The  oath?"  cried  Loki,  and  with  careful  ear 
Waited  her  word.     " The  oath?     Who  then  hath 
sworn?" 

"All  things,"  quoth  Frigga,  "saving  one  alone." 

"That  one?"  craved  Loki,  and  breathed  not  for 

thirst 
Of  coming  knowledge.     "Prithee,  name  it  me." 

Calm  as  the  light  of  moon  on  mountain  fiord, 
When  summer  sleeps,  relaxed,  upon  the  hills, 


no  Baldxir  tHe  Beautiful 

Was  Frigga's  smile.     "A  little  shrub, "  she  said, 
"That  grows  beside  Valhalla — mistletoe 
They  call  it." 

'And  it  dared  withhold  the  oath?" 

The  deep  eyes  of  the  goddess  shone  with  love 
Wide  as  the  universe.     "So  young  it  was — 
So  pale  and  weak — I  spared  its  feebleness 
The  waste  of  breath. " 

"It  was  well  done,'*  avowed 
The  false  of  heart ;  exultant  sallied  forth, 
Took  back  his  birthright  shape,  and  straight  him 

hied 

Thither  where  by  Valhalla  faintly  grew 
The  little  shrub,  scarce  lifted  from  the  root 
That  gave  it  life,  too  young,  too  weak  to  flower. 

Ruthless  he  brake  it  from  its  pliant  stem, 
Close  hid  it  in  the  hollow  of  his  palm, 
And  sped  him  where  the  ^Esir  jubilant 
Their  sport  pursued,  Baldur  its  goal  and  crown — 
Baldur  the  perfect,  fashioned  all  of  love, 
Baldur  the  Beautiful,  surnamed  the  Good. 

An  arrow's  flight  away,  sad-browed,  as  one 
By  Fate  from  common  joyance  set  apart, 
Hodur  the  Blind,  stronger  than  seven,  stood, 
His  sinewy  arms  light  crossed  above  his  breast. 
Him  Loki  swift  discerned  and  swifter  sought. 
11  What  dost  thou  here?  "  quoth  he.     "  Would'st 
thou  alone 


The  DeatK  of  Baldxar  in 

Spare  Baldur  meed  of  honour?" 

"Nay,  in  truth, " 

Hodur  made  answer,  "for  I  love  him  well; 
He  is  mine  only  day,  and  all  my  light. 
But  weapon  have  I  none;   or  had  I  such, 
How  should  these  futile  eyes  find  way  to  him, 
That  see  not  their  own  path? " 

"  Stay, "Loki  urged. 

"Take  thine  allotted  pleasure.     Lo,  this  twig — 
Though  small,  't  is  somewhat,  truly.     Here  thou 

hast  't. 
Thy    pole    star    I.     Put    forth    thy    matchless 

strength — 
Thine  uttermost.    Accord  him  thus  much  grace." 

Thereat  Hodur  the  Blind,  stronger  than  seven, 
His  shadowed  countenance  relit  and  glad, 
Cried  out  in  voice  new-tuned  to  joy:     "I,  too, 

0  Baldur,  dearer  holding  thee  than  all, 

1  fain  would  show  my  pride  in  thee. "     So  crying, 
As  Loki  guided  him,  struck  out  his  arm — 

His  sinewy  right  arm — with  strength  of  seven, 
Speeding  the  puny  missile  on  its  way, 
Unwitting  whither.     And  before  the  breath 
That  shaped  the  words  had  spent  its  gentleness, 
Pierced  through  and  through  to  the  great  heart 

of  him, 
Baldur  the  Beautiful  lay  dead. 

Woe!  Woe! 
Ah,  woe  in  Asgard!    Woe  to  all  the  worlds! 


112  balclvir  tHe  Beaxitifxil 

Death  the  unconquerable  has  entered  Heaven. 
Black  horror  shook  the  air.     Chaos  uprose 
From    farthest    Hel,    distort    and    monstrous. 

Fear 

Froze  every  breath,  cast  every  limb  in  stone. 
Aghast,  undone,  the  J£sir  palsied  stood, 
With   anguished   eyes   fast   fixt  where  Baldur 

lay — 

A  fallen  star,  in  his  own  light  enshrouded, 
And  coffined  in  the  darkness  of  the  world. 
Hodur,  alone  amid  them  undistraught, 
Still  smiling  soft,  joy  not  yet  gone  from  him, 
Hearkened,  anticipant,  for  answering  sign, 
Till  suddenly  the  silence  smote  on  him 
As  it  had  been  a  blow.     Doubt,  dread,  despair 
Gripped  him  and  drave  him  forward.     Thus  he 

came, 

Precipitate,  with  stumbling,  senseless  feet, 
On  Baldur  prostrate,  bent  down  groping  hands, 
And  in  the  agony  of  knowledge  gave 
His  being  up,  with  clamorous  groans  that  rang 
Reverberant  through  the  wide  vaults  of  Heaven. 

Then  such  a  cry  went  out  from  all  the  gods 
As  shook  the  Hel-bound  root  of  Yggdrasil, 
And  tore  the  embedded  anchors  of  the  skies 
From    every    mooring   loose.     "Woe!  Woe!" 

they  cried. 

"Baldur  the  Beautiful!     Baldur  the  Good! 
Baldur,  our  Brother!"     And  the  universe 


THe  Death  of  Baldkir  113 

Rocked  like  a  leaf,  while  on  his  lonely  throne, 
Odin,  the  All-Father,  veiled  his  stricken  face. 

Lo,  then,  like  mariners  on  Northern  seas, 

Who  through  the  rift  of  storm-rent  clouds  behold 

The  midnight  sun,  so  were  the  ^Esir  ware 

Of  Frigga  in  their  midst,  stiller  than  death, 

Mantled  in  such  divinity  of  grief 

That  awe  fell  on  them  like  a  mailed  hand 

Compelling  them  to  silence,  while  her  words 

So  reached  their  consciousness  as  if  to  each 

His  own  voice  whispered  to  him  in  his  soul. 

"That  son  most  swift,  most  sure,  let  him  take 

steed 

And  spare  not  spur,  nor  stay  him  day  nor  night 
For  love  nor  hate,  for  life  nor  death,  until 
He  slacken  rein  in  Hel,  and  there  demand 
Ransom  for  Baldur,  so  he  come  again 
To  Asgard,  that  again  the  worlds  have  light, 
That   Yggdrasil  bear  leaves,   and   Heaven   be 

Heaven." 

As  lightning  leaps  amid  the  brooding  clouds, 
Out  from  the  ^Esir  Hermod  leapt  forthwith — 
Hermod  the  Fleet,  whose  foot  no  wing  outflew — 
And  swore  by  Odin's  puissant  scimitar 
To  sate  nor  thirst  nor  hunger,  nor  to  seek 
Sleep's  intimate  refreshment,  ere  in  Hel, 
From  Hela,  odious  ruler  of  the  nine 
Unhappy  lands,  he  won  great  Baldur  back. 


114  Baldxir  the   Beautiful 

And  as  at  stir  of  spring's  awakening  sap 
Boughs  bare  as  bones,  flaming  to  sudden  bloom 
Are  wreathed  halls  for  hidden  choristers 
That  fill  the  air  with  ecstasy,  so  Hope 
Flowed  re-creating  through  the  ^Esir's  veins 
At  Hermod's  oath,  and  all  their  blood  ran  wine. 

From  Odin's  throne  imperious  command 
Then  came  that  ash-grey  Sleipnir,  first  of  steeds, 
For  Frigga's  envoy  should  accoutred  be — 
Sleipnir,  whom  none  but  Odin  yet  bestrode — 
Sleipnir  the  marvellous,  the  double-limbed, 
Who  trod  the  ether  as  't  were  pastured  earth — 
The  swift  beyond  compare,  each  leap  a  flight 
Immeasurable,  each  breath  a  molten  flame. 
Joyous  sprang  Hermod  to  the  massive  back; 
So,  for  a  pulse  beat,  in  his  brothers'  sight 
Stood  imaged  straight  as  fir  on  mountain  top, 
While  to  the  goddess  suppliant  eyes  he  bent, 
Mutely  petitioning  a  signalled  grace. 
Then  by  the  look  she  gave  him  panoplied 
Against  aught  ill,  he  spake  in  Sleipnir 's  ear, 
Dropped  the  loose  line  upon  his  stormy  mane, 
Struck  spur,  and  vanished  like  a  meteor,  whilst 
The  ^Esir's  shout  still  thundered  down  the  dark. 


II 
The  Journey  to  Hel 


II 

THE  JOURNEY  TO  HEL 
THE  ^ESIR'S  CHORUS 


FAST!     Ride  fast! 
Storm  rides  with  thee  ! 
The  shrieking  blast 
Thy  bugle  be, 
The  long  slant  rain 
Of  the  hurricane 
Thy  javelin. 
The  race  begin  ! 

Be  the  swiftest  star 
Thy  chariot  wheel; 
The  lightning's  bar 
Step  for  thy  heel; 
Yon  comet  wear 
To  plume  thy  hair; 
'Mid  crash  and  din 
The  tilt  begin  ! 

Ride  fast!     Ride  well! 
Death  jousts  with  thee  — 
117 


n8  Baldxir  the  Beautiful 

The  Queen  of  Hel 
Thine  enemy. 
Pay  utmost  toll 
For  Baldur's  soul. 
Or  die !     Or  win ! 
The  fight  begin! 


Sleipnir  sped  on.     With  his  first  mighty  leap, 
Asgard,  the  bright-built  city,  silver- walled, 
Shone  faintly  from  the  distance,  like  a  gem 
Lost  in  the  gloom ;  Bifrost,  the  Rainbow  Bridge, 
With  burning  central  rib  of  ruby  fire, 
No  more  was  than  a  smoking  shade;   Midgard, 
A  pallor  sketched  against  the  dimness.     On 
And  on  rushed  Sleipnir,  every  beat  of  hoof 
A  lightning  flash,  a  whirlwind  every  breath; 
And  high  upon  him,  straight  as  masted  pine, 
Hermod,  with  brow  that  bent  nor  right  nor  left, 
And  proud  eyes  unaff righted,  while  the  stars, 
Told  off  like  milestones,  measured  one  by  one 
His  course  through  space. 

Now  was  the  outmost  sphere 
Only  a  golden  memory  dissolved 
In  nothingness.     His  eye  where  e'er  it  fell 
Found  black,  bleak,  bitter  night — a  darkness 

fierce, 

Defiant,  treacherous,  before  advance 
Retreating  as  a  wave  retreats,  to  close 
In  after  with  an  all-engulfing  rush 


THe  Joxirney  to  Hel  119 

And  drown  resistance — darkness  horrible, 
Massed   here   and    yon   in   denser   blurrings — 

vague 

Colossal  shapings  supernatural, 
Ungodly  and  unhuman — ambushed  fiends, 
Plotting  enormities. 

More  swift  and  more, 
Fleeter  than  wind,   than  time,   than  thought 

itself, 

Sleipnir  with  Hermod  raced  adown  the  dark : 
Nine  timeless  days  fled  down  the  frozen  deep — 
Nine  days  wherein  no  sun  was,  midnights  all, 
Where  was  no  moon,  nor  any  glint  of  star, 
Ninefold  more  bitter  grown  each  sequent  hour. 
Caparisoned  in  sheeted  ice  the  horse: 
Congealed  to  opals  every  geyser  breath: 
And  on  his  back  Hermod,  a  marble  god 
White  as  the  wind-whipped  foam,  his  plumed 

head 

Held  high  as  light  on  beacon  tower,  his  eyes 
Flinging  their  challenge  fearless  on  to  Hel. 

Nine  days  he  rode — a  measureless  time  of  dread 
Unfathomable.     Then  faintly  gleamed  at  last 
Across  the  blotted  darkness,  like  a  thread 
Swung  from  a  spider's  loom,  the  Bridge  of  Gjoll, 
Spanning  Death's  turbid  river  in  an  arch 
Of  tenuous  gold ;  there  twenty  leagues  below, 
The  mad,  black  billows,  torn  with  ghastly  pangs, 
Flow  whence  hone  know  nor  whither,  flinging  far 


120  Baldxir  tKe  Beaxitifxil 

Their  jetty  spume  upon  the  quavering  air. 
Straight  o'er  the  slender  scintillating  line 
Flew  Sleipnir,  and  each  hoof  beat  on  the  gold 
Crashed  like  a  falling  tower.     At  the  noise 
Up  rose  the  warder  maiden,  Modgurdur, 
Unmatched  for  comeliness  and  strength .  Amazed , 
Hermod  she  saw,  and  called  to  him  with  voice 
Like  rush  of  mingling  waters.     "Who  art  thou 
That,  living,  ridest  sole  upon  the  Bridge, 
Which,    yester,    five   score   dead    men    serried 

crossed, 
And  shook  it  less  than  thou?" 

Nor  right  nor  left 
Looked  Hermod,  nor  drew  rein,  but  dropped  a 

word 

As  sea-gulls,  soaring,  drop  a  loosened  plume. 
"For  Baldur's  sake  I,  Hermod,  ride  the  Way 
Of  Death.  Hast  seen  him  pass?" 

"Yea,  verily. 
It  was  as  Heaven  had  lightened  in  my  face." 

"What  way  went  he?" 

She  signed  with  lifted  arm, 
White-gleaming  as  'twixt  flying  clouds  by  night 
Shimmers  the  Milky  Way.     ' '  Northward,  to  Hel. 
Yet  tarry  thou,  I  prithee."     Honey-sweet 
And  warm  her  breath  stole  through  the  gloom. 

But  left 
Nor  right  looked  Hermod,  nor  drew  rein.     And 

on 


THe  Jcrurney  to   Hel  121 

Swept  Sleipnir,  fronting  a  blast  whereto  all  winds 
That  yet  had  blown  were  but  an  idle  draught, 
Till,  on  the  farther  verge  of  that  abyss 
Whose  bottom  is  the  space  beyond  the  stars, 
Loomed  up,  immense,  appalling,  mountain  high, 
And  barbed  with  poisoned  swords  that  fouled  the 

air, 
The  hideous,  brazen,  thrice-barred  gates  of  Hel. 

Down  flung  him  Hermod,  tightened  girth  and 

bit, 

Laughed  out,  sprang  reckless  up,  once  and  again 
Cried  Baldur's  name;  then,  as  an  eagle  soars 
And  swoops,  so  Sleipnir  with  gigantic  vault 
Cleared  the  vast  pile,  nor  grazed  the  topmost 

blade, 

And  rooted  stood  within  the  drear  domain 
Of  Death,   each  strong  limb  quaking.     Down 

from  his  back 

Leapt  Hermod,  with  triumphant  shout  that  ere 
His  foot  attained  the  sod  was  cut  in  twain 
Like  a  snapt  harp-string.     Silent  then  and  dumb 
Beside  his  sweating,  palpitating  horse 
He  stood  at  gaze,  unknowing  what  he  saw, 
And  for  a  space  the  semblance  felt  of  fear. 

Cavernous  gloom,  like  midnight  filtering 
Through  hollowed  ice,  cloaked  all  the  desolate 

place 
In  mystery  of  impenetrable  shade, 


122  Daldvir  tHe  Beautifxil 

Chill  with  a  cankered  damp  unpurged  by  sun, 
A  dark  no  dawn  should  morrow,  in  whose  hold 
Ambiguous  and  indeterminate, 
Lurked  all  imaginable  chance  of  ill — 
A  terror  of  suggestion  half  conceived. 
And  o'er  it,  like  the  folded  shroud  on  dead 
Stark  breast,  lay  silence  awful,  absolute, 
Empty  of  calm  as  fear  is  void  of  peace, 
A  stillness  as  of  anguish-packt  suspense 
Before  impending  doom. 

While  thus  he  stood 

Transfixed,  with  widened  eyes  that  naught  dis 
cerned, 

Sudden  the  immensity  of  loneliness 
Rushed  on  him,  caught  him  by  the  throat  and 

held 

As  't  were  a  thing  alive  and  palpable ; 
And  lo !     from  out  the  infinite  vacancy 
Came  to  him  his  own  ghost — a  self  unknown, 
Naked  and  importune  confronting  him — 
They  two  alone  in  that  vast  emptiness ; 
And,  awed,  he  looked  his  bared  soul  in  the  face 
And  was  aghast,  knowing  it  was  himself 
He  chiefest  feared. 

As  then  his  sight  undimmed, 
Far  as  the  straining  eye  could  reach,  he  saw 
The  torpid  ether  teem  with  shadowy  souls 
As  teems  a  shaft  of  sun  with  sliding  motes — 
Myriads  and  myriads  of  ignoble  souls, 
The  miserably  dead,  unslain  in  fight, 


THe  Journey  to  Hel  123 

Thin  outlined  like  a  breath  upon  the  air, 
Passing,  repassing,  helpless  wandering, 
Unanchored  by  desire,  intent,  or  will. 
Ice- wraiths  they  seemed,  blown  into  vaporous 

shapes 

From  grey  dissolving  mists,  noiseless  as  clouds, 
Each  drifting  past  the  other  with  no  sign ; 
Each  to  the  other  naught,  as  winds  that  meet; 
Each  companied  in  its  drear  solitude 
By  its  dead  self. 

Astonished,  thus  he  saw, 
And  for  a  moment's  shame  felt  coward  fear 
Clutch  at  his  breast.     In  wrath  he  freed  himself 
From  the  ungodly  thrall;    then  first  perceived 
Through  the  prodigious  dusk  a  faint  far  ray 
Of  promise  strangely  sweet,  and  toward  it  strode. 
Transcendent  waxed  the  brilliance,  and  he  wot 
Its  midmost  ecstasy  was  Baldur's  soul, 
Irradiating  love  and  joy  and  peace 
In  rich  effulgence,  making  even  in  Hel 
A  Heaven  ineffable.     Beside  the  root 
Of  ageless  Yggdrasil  he  glorious  stood, 
God  of  all  beauty  and  all  goodness,  which 
Eternally  are  one,  his  splendour  now 
No  more  obscured  by  veiling  flesh,  ablaze 
As  the  full  sun  when  clouds  are  overpast. 
Lo,  in  that  light  supernal,  as  within 
A  holy  womb,  had  been  a  miracle 
Of  birth.     Deep  stirred,  the  root  of  Yggdrasil, 
The  Ash- tree  Yggdrasil,  branched  forth  anew ; 


124  Baldxir  tKe  Beautiful 

Dead  leaves  at  the  imperious  call  revived ; 
Soft  mosses  creeping  came  with  velvet  tread; 
Sweet  sun-warmed  scents  and  half-heard  wood 
land  sounds 

Indefinite  as  sea-shell  murmurings, 
Made  all  the  air  a  trembling  ravishment ; 
Wan  buds  awoke,  took  back  their  laid-by  bloom 
And    breathed    out    shaken    raptures;     buried 

brooks 

Broke  their  white  tombs,  flung  their  cold  cere 
ments  off, 

Leapt  laughing  to  the  light,  and  sang  aloud 
The  wondrous  resurrection  song  of  Spring; 
And  one  by  one,  drawn  helpless  thitherward 
Like  sun-sucked  mists,  the  shivering  dead  souls 
Stretched  out  pale  palms  to  the  celestial  gleam, 
And  on  its  burning  edge  hung  quiveringly — 
A  nimbus  round  the  flame ;  while  nigher  still, 
Included  wholly  in  its  radiance, 
A  shape,  diverse  from  these  and  godlier, 
Depended  motionless,  so  subtly  mixt 
With  the  enfolding  light  as  scarce  therefrom 
Discernible,  and  Hermod  knew  the  beam 
For  Hodur's  thrice  blest  soul. 

Near  by,  in  state 

Preposterous,  befitting  birth  so  foul — 
Sister  to  Fenrir  and  to  Jormungard — 
Grim  Hela  sat,  Hel's  most  ill-favoured  Queen, 
Ruler  of  all  unslain  on  battlefield, 
The  ingloriously,  pitifully  dead: 


TKe  Joxirney  to  Hel  125 

Nor  could  even  Baldur's  brightness  re-illume 
Her  livid  form  to  hue  less  horrible. 
On  Hermod  full  she  bent  her  rancorous  gaze, 
And  as  the  Gorgon's  snake-encircled  brow 
Transformed    to    stone    who    ventured    glance 

thereon, 
So  blackened  Hel  at  the  bare  sight  of  her. 

"How  darest  thou,  unsummoned,  with  no  taint 
Of  death  upon  thee,  thus  my  realm  invade?" 
The   words   clashed   out   like   rudely   crossing 

swords. 
"What  here  thy  purpose?" 

Courteous  he  bent 
The  knee.     "At  Frigga's  hest,  great  Queen,  I 

come, 

Nor  will  delay  to  leave  thee,  so  thou  grant 
Baldur  the  Beautiful  with  me  return — 
Baldur  the  Beautiful,  our  best  beloved. 
Thus  only  shall  the  lamentations  cease 
In  Asgard  where  the  gods  their  godhood  mock, 
Bewailing  him  who  makes  our  sum  of  Heaven." 

Thereat  laughed  Hela,  and  upon  the  sound 

A    shudder    tore    through    Hel.     "Lo,    now," 

scoffed  she, 

And  harsh  her  voice  as  iron  meeting  iron, 
"  Shall  I  win  proof  if  Baldur  verily 
Be  loved  as  thy  unbridled  speech  proclaims. 
Bid  everything  that  draws  the  breath  of  life 


126  Baldxir  the  Beautiful 

Throughout  the  universe — nay,  all  that  is, 
Ev'n  an  it  breathe  not — bid  all  weep  for  him, 
Compelling  his  re-birth  with  suppliant  tears: 
Then  to  the  ^Esir  will  I  him  restore, 
That  Asgard  know  again  its  vaunted  Heaven, 
And  every  faded  star  shine  forth  anew. 
But  doth  one  only  shed  no  saving  drop — 
One  only  of  the  seething  multitudes 
Refuse  that  bidden  sign — he  here  remains, 
Unransomed,  unredeemed,  our  flower  of  Hel." 

"Oh,  grace  unparalleled!     Oh,  golden  grief, 
Itself  the  ransom  of  the  woe  it  weeps! " 
Cried  Hermod,  ravished.     "  O  unbending  Queen, 
The  eternal  love  of  all  the  gladdened  worlds 
Reward  thy  clemency.     Baldur  is  ours! 
Baldur  once  more  is  ours!" 

"Nay,  by  the  gods," 
Swore  Hela,  "so  soon  is  it  not  fulfilled. 
Go  thou,  for  I  have  said,  and  it  abides. " 
Again  she  laughed.     Again  the  floor  of  Hel 
Shook,  terrified. 

Hermod  on  Baldur  gazed, 

And  Baldur  smiled  on  him;  and  with  the  smile 
Shut  in  his  heart,  Hermod  on  Sleipnir  sprang, 
Cried  to  him  once:  "For  Baldur's  sake  thy 

best!" 

Nor  needed  second  spur;  o'erleapt  the  gates, 
And  journeyed  back  the  awful  Way  of  Death. 
But  lo!  its  nameless  terrors  were  as  naught; 


TKe  Joxirney  to   Hel  127 

Nor  cold,  nor  dark,  nor  any  thirst  he  knew ; 
And  the  long  course  of  starless  nights  and  dawns 
A  single  perfect  moment  was  to  him, 
So  did  hope  master  time  and  circumstance. 

As  thus  he  came  to  Asgard,  silver-built, 
That  erst  shone  in  mid-Heaven  like  a  sun, 
Now  dull  and  dim  as  an  unlighted  moon, 
The  White  God,  Heimdall,  watching  from  afar, 
Caught  up  the  Gjallar  Horn,  and  blew  a  blast 
Surpassing  ev'n  that  seven-day  trumpet  blare 
Laid  Palestine's  beleaguered  city  low; 
Twice  valorously  he  blew;    and  ere  't  was  done 
Re-echoing  mid  the  stars,  the  ^Esir  all 
Across  Bifrost,  the  burning  Rainbow  Bridge, 
Came  swift  as  meteors  flung  athwart  the  sky 
From  fiery  hearted  August's  catapult. 
Scarce  greater  joy  Laodamia  showed 
Her  risen  lord,  re-lent  for  three  hours'  grace, 
Than  they  to  Hermod.     The  famed  Florentine 
On  his  high  pilgrimage  was  not  so  sore 
Beset  by  starving  shades  for  tale  of  friends 
Long  since  dispaired,  as  now  the  god  for  word 
Of    Baldur;     nor    more    swift    those    shadows 

plucked 

The  whole  from  scantiest  beginnings,  than 
The  ^Esir  wrested  from  him  at  a  breath. 

Then  each,  in  tempered  grief,  as  seers  who  hail 
The  desired  end  beyond  a  path  of  pain, 


128  Baldvir  the  Beautiful 

Cried  out  aloud  with  meed  of  moistened  lids, 
And   struck   their   spears   against   their   glassy 

shields 

Till  all  the  air  was  rent  with  silver  sounds; 
While  clear  above  the  tempest  of  their  cries 
Rang  forth  the  slow  sad  strains  of  Frigga's  dirge, 
Tender  with  longing  inexpressible. 

FRIGGA'S  DIRGE 

Weep,  weep  for  Baldur  dead! 
For  light,  for  beauty  sped! 
For  fairness  from  all  fair  things  fled! 
Gone  is  our  summer  with  its  flush  of  flowers, 
Its  purpled  plains, 
Its  sunset  stains. 

Gone  are  its  brooks,  that  babbled  in  green  bowers, 
Its  misted  dawns,  its  scented  dews  and  showers, 

Its  rainbowed  rains — 
The  glory  of  its  golden  hours 
Endarkened  wholly. 
Gone,  gone  our  light  of  life  and  love ! 
No  more  the  iris-breasted  dove, 
Melodiously  melancholy, 

Croons  o  'er  its  plaint  within  the  curtained  grove. 
No  daring  wing  the  distance  cleaves. 
No  moth  its  gossamer  shroud  unweaves. 
No  wind-awakened,  lisping  leaves 
Whisper  their  pleasure  o'er  and  o'er 
As  Day  unbars  her  lattice  door, 

Night  swooning  at  her  knee : 


THe  Journey  to  Hel  129 

No  more  the  sunbeam's  glittering  ball 
Rebounds  from  silver  shield  and  wall, 
Drops  from  the  dome  o'er  Gimli's  Hall, 
Or  flashes  from  the  sea. 
No  more !  no  more ! 
Evil  hath  laid  its  curse 
Across  our  universe. 
Lost  is  the  god  whom  we  implore. 
Gloom  and  Despair 
Foul  fruitage  bear, 
And  ice  sheets  cover 
The  stark  worlds  over. 
Unstarred  our  eves;    unsunned  our  noons; 
Silent  our  skalds ;   forgot  our  runes ; 
Daytime  and  night  are  one. 
Adown  the  desperate  years 
We  call  with  steadfast  tears. 
No  bitterer  Hel  can  be 
Than  Heaven,  missing  thee, 
Baldur — our  life!  our  sun! 

From  highest  heights  now  fell  the  All-Father's 

voice 

Surcharged  with  lonexy  grief  majestical, 
Bidding  the  gods,  as  light  and  life  they  loved, 
Speed  forth  whithersoever  sun  revolved 
Or  atom  stirred,  and  cast  command  abroad 
That  all  things  to  full  measure  of  their  love 
For  Baldur,  now  bewail  him  long  and  sore 
With  free-spent  tears,  if  haply  by  such  grace 


130  Baldur  the  Beautiful 

Might  Fate  and  Ragnarok  forfended  be. 
And  with  the  uttering  of  that  word  of  dread, 
On  a  slow  sigh  the  great  voice  ebbed  away, 
As  sighs  and  ceases  a  receding  wave; 
And  silence  held  its  breath  for  what  should  come. 


Ill 
Ragnarok 


Ill 

RAGNAROK 

No  fleeter  follows  echo  on  the  sound, 
Than  sprang  the  gods  at  Odin's  summons  forth, 
Obedience  and  love  conjoined,  in  speed 
Outvying  each  his  jealous  brother  god. 
Comets  a-race  with  comets,  suns  with  suns, 
Less  swift  had  traversed  space,  and  in  a  breath 
Throughout  the  universe  their  word  was  told. 

Grief  hath  been  in  the  world  since  time  began, 
Life's  first  and  latest  birthright ;  every  soul 
Hides  somewhere  its  unplumbed  abyss  of  pain. 
But  never  yet  was  lamentation  known 
Like  this  for  Baldur,  nor  through  time  to  come 
In  sorrow's  annals  shall  again  be  writ. 
No  eye  withheld  the  desired  sign  of  dole. 
Not  Dante  did  so  weep  for  Beatrice; 
Not  Niobe  bedewed  her  marble  feet 
With  bitterer  tears  for  all  her  children  slain; 
Nor  did  forsaken  Dido  on  her  pyre 
More  plentiful  a  show  of  sorrow  make. 
Neither  were  hearts  of  human  mould  alone 
Moved  to  complaint.     Even  the  merciless  beasts, 
133 


134  Baldkir  tKe  Beautiful 

Missing  their  moons,   most   piteous  mourned. 

The  birds 

Re-tuned  their  chants  to  brooding  threnodies 
Sad  as  were  his  who  wept  Eurydice. 
Yea,  ev'n  the  careless  blundering  things  that 

creep, 

Or  whir,  or  swim,  forgot  their  fretting  wants 
Before  that  greater  want  of  all  the  worlds. 
No  farthest  sun  but  shed  a  glittering  tear, 
Bedewing  arid  space  with  grief.     The  sky 
Was  all  a  sprinkle  of  wet  stars.     Bifrost 
Pellucid  gleamed  through  veil  of  jewelled  spray. 
The  heavy-hearted  clouds  trailed  low,  and  wept 
In  dreary  monotone  of  melancholy; 
Deucalion  from  Parnassus'  sacred  peak 
Saw  not  so  sad  a  flow.     The  drooping  night 
Shook  moisture  from  her  plumes.     Each  dew- 
tipped  leaf 

Quivered  beneath  its  load,  and  every  flower 
Treasured  within  its  heart  a  fragrant  tear. 
No  grass-blade  but  uphung  the  crystal  sign. 
No  trembling  tree  but  somewhere  pricked  its 

veins 

And  bled  an  amber  drop.     The  rivers  ran 
Hoarse  with  long  sobbing.     The  disquiet  winds 
Wailed  out  their  heartache  through  the  sighing 

pines. 
The  pale  mists  wavering  pressed  from  bole  to 

bole 
Like  the  dim  exhalation  of  a  prayer. 


RagnaroK  135 

The  seas  upon  the  shingles  crashed  and  broke, 
Thundering  out  their  woe.     The  shivering  sands 
Whispered  their  sorrow  o'er  and  o'er  again 
In  ceaseless  repetition  through  slow  hours. 
The  heavy  breeze  crept,  damply  odorous, 
Along  the  sodden  ground.     The  very  earth — 
The  very  rocks — sweated  and  groaned  with  grief, 
And  everywhere  uprose  the  breathless  cry — 
"Baldur  the  Beautiful— the  Good— return !" 

As  now  the  ^sir,  satisfied  and  sure, 
Their  mission  well  completed,  rode  at  ease 
Their  frothing  chargers  o'er  the  Bridge  Bifrost 
Toward  Asgard  bent,  Bragi  the  Silver- Mouthed, 
Wand 'ring  apart  with  heedless  rein,  his  lips 
Outbreathing  Baldur's  name  unwittingly 
As  when  a  slumbering  bird  dreams  out  a  song 
Softer  than  memoried  music,  chanced  upon 
A  quarried  cell  bewrayed  by  noisome  stench 
From  rotting  vines  and  oozing  carrion  heaps. 
There,  'mid  the  dizzy  shadows  and  the  drip 
Of  mouldy  walls  where  moist  misshapen  things 
Or  crawled,  or  lurked  in  foul  black-crusted  webs, 
Squatted  inert  upon  a  loathsome  mat 
Of  woven  snakes  sat  Thaukt,  her  lurid  eyes 
Twin  torches  lighting  up  the  purple  gloom 
With  baleful  fire  that  withered  aught  it  touched. 

Bragi,  amazed,  in  haste  unhorsed  himself, 
And  bending  his  bright  head,  unhelmeted, 


136  Baldkir  the  Beautiful 

To  match  the  meaner  compass  of  the  vault, 
Found  way  within,  and  so  contrived  his  tale 
As  best  should  wing  it  past  a  careless  ear 
To  the  heart's  full  conception.     Thaukt,  the 

hag- 
She  who  sat,  squalid,  on  the  pulsing  mat — 
Unmoved  transfixed  him  with  her  cold  bright  eye. 
"Naught,  quick  or  dead,  gain  I  by  gift  of  tear 
For  Baldur  slain,"  churlish  she  answered  him. 
"Let  Hela  hold  what  's  hers." 

"Boundless  thy  gain," 
Bragi  avowed,  "regaining  Baldur 's  soul — 
Light  for  thy  murk,  beauty  and  joy  and  good 
For  this  thy  misery  and  gracelessness. " 

"To  mole  or  bat  the  night  is  fair  as  noon, " 
Sneered  Thaukt .    ' '  That  which  by  choice  is  mine , 

as  good 

And  beautiful  already  me  beseems. 
I  crave  not  Baldur  back.     Till  Ragnarok 
Let  Hela  hold  what 's  hers." 

"Nay,"  Bragi  urged; 

And  as  the  wind,  with  age-long  griefs  endued, 
Falters  and  breaks  and  fails  and  grieves  again, 
So  shook  his  voice,  freighted  with  sympathy. 
"If  not  for  thine  own  need,  grant  but  a  tear 
In  pity  for  the  need  of  all  the  worlds. " 

"What  is  't  to  me, "  she  flung  athwart  his  speech 
With    snarling   tongue,    "though    craven    dogs 
night-long 


RagnaroK  137 

Bay  hopeless  at  the  moon?     Pities  the  sea 
The  shore  its  white  lips  suck?     Pities  the  storm 
The  wheat  its  sickle  slays?     Pities  the  flame 
The  thing  it  feeds  upon?     Pities  the  gale 
The  leaf,  the  frost  the  flower,  the  worm  the  fruit? 
Then  wherefore  I  the  grief  that  is  not  mine?" 

"Not  thine?"  he  challenged.     "Sure  mine  ear 

mistook ! 

Is  not  one  spirit  father  of  the  worlds, 
Through  heritage  of  whose  informing  breath 
All  are  akin?     As  rivers  seek  the  main, 
Merged  evermore  in  its  immensity, 
Quickening  currents  of  a  common  heart, 
So  soul  seeks  soul,  blending  in  brotherhood, 
Eternally  interfused,  eternally  one — 
A  single  pulse,  athrob  through  myriad  veins. 
How  then  shall  not  another's  woe  be  thine, 
His  pain  thy  pain,  his  need  thine  inmost  own?" 

"  Not  so, "  she  said.     "  My  life  alone  is  mine. 
Leave  me  unvext." 

Then  he,  incredulous 

That  thing  so  weak  held  power  to  uncreate 
A  scheme  so  potent,  bared  of  patience,  cried: 
''No  life  is  his  alone  that  lives  it!     Each 
Imports  to  all,  and  all  import  to  each, 
Bound  by  the  self -same  law  of  fellowship 
That  links  the  suns  each  to  his  neighbour  star. 
Who  art  thou  that  deniest  brotherhood? 


138  Baldxar  the  Beautiful 

How  hast  so  unlearnt  love,  forgot  compassion, 
Severed  the  time-old  chain  'twixt  thee  and  thine  ? 
Who  art  thou?" 

"By  thy  showing,  Hate  am  I, 
And  Misery  my  chosen  dwelling-place," 
Gibing  she  answered  from  the  hissing  snakes. 
"  Curse  thee,  begone !     Room  is  not  in  my  breast 
For  love,  nor  pity,  nor  desire  of  good." 

"  Now  by  my  sword  that  leaps  within  its  sheath, 
Here  will  I  slay  thee  in  thy  monster  blood ! ' ' 
Swore  Bragi,  fiercely  gripped  with  sudden  wrath. 
Then  calmer  spake,  minded  her  yet  to  win. 
"I   err.     Forgive.     Hate   slain   were   not   love 

shown. 
Naught  boots  thy  death.     Flawless  and  perfect 

love 

Alone  may  ransom  Baldur's  perfect  soul. 
How  win  thee  to  that  love?     How  pity  teach 
For  need  thou  hast  not  known?" 

Lo,  as  he  ceased, 

And  silence  fell  between  them  for  a  space, 
From  Midgard  rose  the  sorrowing  peoples'  cry, 
A  low  sad  plaint  bewailed  from  star  to  star, 
And  lost  upon  the  void  in  shattered  sounds. 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLES 

Splendour  of  all  the  worlds,  O  Light 
The  brightest  suns  transcending, 
Vast  as  thy  glory  is  our  night 


RagnaroK  139 

Unstarlit  and  unending. 
Like  wandering  souls  a-craze  with  thirst 

From  waste  savannas  crying, 
By  phantom  oases  accurst, 

Who  dream  they  drink  while  dying, 
So  we,  blind-eyed  and  terror-bound, 

Groping  through  gloom  supernal, 
Dream  that  our  faltering  feet  have  found 

Source  of  thy  springs  eternal. 

Splendour  of  all  the  unsunned  spheres, 

Shine  down  these  desert  spaces ! 
Strike  from  our  souls  the  numbing  fears — 

The  horror  from  our  faces. 
Darkness  entombs  us  as  in  stone, 

Heart  sealed  from  heart  for  ever. 
Each  wind-breath  bears  a  smothered  moan. 

Hope  lifts  her  beacon  never. 
Oh,  though  all  else  the  Norns  deny, 

Allow  our  last  petition ! 
Light!     Light!     Give  light,  or  grant  we  die! 

Death — or  immortal  vision ! 


"Didst    heed?"    asked    Bragi.     "Needs    there 

aught  beside? 
Canst  still  withhold  the  succour  of  thy  tears?" 

"Avaunt!"  she  said,  and  spat  upon  the  ground. 
"  Thou  weariest  me. "     And  through  grim  lower 
ing  lids 


140  Daldxir  tHe  Beautiful 

Her  fiery  eyes  burned  knowledge  in  on  him. 

11  Loki ! "  appalled  he  cried.     "  Loki !    Loki ! 
For  all  thy  strange  misshapement,  it  is  thou! 
Loki!     O   Cruelty  incorporate! 
Oh,  blacker  than  the  blasted  Elves  of  Dark! 
Accurst !    Accurst !  * ' 

"That  which  lam,  lam 
Immortally.     Hela  shall  keep  her  own," 
Said  Thaukt,  and  malice  glittered  in  her  face. 
And  now  not  Thaukt,  but  Loki,  towered  there, 
His  beauteous  form  upon  the  coiling  snakes 
Mounted  as  on  a  throne,  his  evil  eyes 
Lit  with  the  inextinguishable  fire 
Of  hate  triumphant,  his  god's  shape  distort 
With  joy  ungodly,  power  malignant,  grace 
Ungraced,  beauty  for  aye  undeified. 
And  Bragi  knew — the  certitude  proclaimed 
As  by  a  searing  bolt — Baldur  the  Good 
For  ever  lost  to  Asgard.     Thereupon, 
Voicing  an  unendurable  despair, 
From  his  racked  breast  broke  cry  so  piercing 

shrill 

That  all  the  homeward- wending  JEsir  heard. 
Dismayed,  quick  scenting  sorrow  and  defeat, 
They  flung  their  chargers  round,  and  straight 

and  swift, 

As  shredded  clouds  that  fly  before  the  gale, 
Sought  out  the  sound,  and  at  the  cavern's  mouth 
Formed  crescent- wise,  a  glistening  company 


RagnaroK  141 

Of  shining  shields,  their  lifted  lances  like 
A  silver  palisade,  each  splendid  brow 
In  miserable  suspicion  sternly  set. 

There,  at  their  hands,  justly  unmerciful, 
Loki,  as  once  Prometheus,  met  his  doom — 
To  three  torn  crags  bound  trebly   fast   with 

thongs 

From  out  his  agonising  vitals  wrought, 
While  close  suspended  o'er  his  shuddering  flesh, 
A  serpent  drop  by  drop  spilled  down  its  gall. 
And  as  the  isles  shook  when  Enceladus 
'Neath  ^Etna  stirred,  so  quaked  the  palsied  world 
At  every  throb  of  his  tormented  frame. 


O  Ragnarok!    0  Twilight  of  the  gods! 
O  Day  of  Odin  feared!     Till  Ragnarok 
Shall  Loki's  doom  endure.     Till  Ragnarok 
Shall  Hel  hold  Baldur.     Odin,  Odin  alone, 
The  great  All-Father,  in  his  prescient  heart 
Foresees  its  boded  terrors.     Bitter  woe 
Shall   herald  that   late  dawning;     horror  and 

crime 

Shall  walk  the  highway  bare  and  unashamed, 
Kinship  forgotten  in  fierce  greed  of  gain. 
Then  seasons  of  unconquerable  cold  shall  be 
Such  as  no  land  e'er  wintered — glacial  frosts, 
Tumultuous    sword-edged    winds,    unhallowed 

skies, 


142  Baldur  the  Beautiful 

And  snows  from  all  four  corners  of  the  world, 
With  flakes  as  linted  clouds.     Then  prodigies 
Vast  and  calamitous  shall  follow  swift — 
Fenrir,  the  giant  wolf,  swallow  the  sun, 
Hati  devour  the  moon,  and  Jormungard 
Vomit  envenomed  floods,  stars  drop  like  rain, 
Midgard  scatter  its  hills  as  dust,  its  seas 
Toss  out  as  bursting  bubbles.     In  that  hour, 
After  uncounted  ages  still  to  dawn, 
Shall  Heaven  itself  be  cleft  in  twain,  and  through 
The  immeasurable  breach,  from  Muspell,  Land 

of  Light, 

Shall  all  her  sons  come,  Surtur  at  their  head, 
Surtur  the  Mighty,  helmed  and  shod  with  flame, 
His  sword  the  sun  outshining.     And  beneath 
The  tread  of  that  indomitable  host, 
Bifrost,  the  Rainbow  Bridge,  like  shivered  glass 
Shall  crack  and  splinter. 

Then  shall  Heimdall  seize 
The  Gjallar  Horn,  and  blow  a  hideous  blast — 
The  cry  of  ultimate  fear,  whose  note  of  doom, 
Beating  from  frightened  world  to  world,  shall 

die 

In  utter  wastes  beyond.     Even  Yggdrasil 
Shall  tremble  through  its  branched  and  rooted 

length. 

In  that  dread  day  of  Ragnarok  shall  naught 
Be  unpossessed  of  terror. 

Nathless,  led 
By  Odin  the  All-Father,  king  of  gods, 


Ra^naroK  143 

Arrayed  for  death  in  timeless  majesty, 

The  ^Esir,  with  Valhalla's  warriors, 

Shall  range  them  on  the  bewildering  battlefield, 

Vigrid,  the  field  of  blood.     There  shall  attend 

Muspell's  refulgent  band,  apart  and  still, 

Proof-clad  in  brightness  unapproachable. 

And  there  shall  gather  all  Hel's  followers, 

With  Loki  and  his  fearful  progeny 

Freed  from  their  mammoth  chains — Fenrir,  the 

wolf, 

The  stretch  of  whose  vast  jaws  encloses  Heaven, 
And  Jormungard,  the  serpent,  he  whose  tail 
The  round  of  Earth  encircles  in  its  coil, 
And  Garm,  the  dog,  worst  monster  of  the  three. 

Then  dazzled,  blinded,  frenzied,  shall  the  gods 
Rush  on  their  doom,  foe  leaping  upon  foe 
In  such  a  conflict  of  inordinate  strengths 
As  since  Titanic  times,  when  thunderbolts 
Were  arrows,  hills  were  slingstones,  hath  not  yet 
Been  known  to  story.     Odin  with  the  wolf 
Shall  furiously  engage,  nor  bear  himself 
Less  resolute  than  did  Olympian  Jove 
Contending  with  Typhceus  for  his  throne. 
But  skill  nor  valour  shall  advantage  him. 
For  as  relentless  Night  upon  the  Day 
Creeps  step  by  step,  beats  back  the  radiant 

shafts 

With  huge  black  bulk  opposed,  stretches  agape 
Stupendous  red-rimmed  jaws  and  inch  by  inch 


144  Baldxir  tKe  Beautiful 

O'ertakes  and  swallows  up  its  glory,  so, 

With  one  last  straight-armed  thrust  of  flashing 

spear, 
Shall  Odin  die. 

Then  tenfold  multiplied 
Shall  fury  animate  the  warring  hosts. 
Fenrir,  sore  wounded,  shall  in  Vidar's  grip 
Yield  his  foul  breath.     Thor,  magic-gauntlet ed, 
Shall  slaughter  Jormungard,  and  ere  his  foot 
Hath  pressed  nine  paces  onward,  shall  lie  prone, 
Stifled  with  its  black  gall.     Heimdall  shall  leap 
On  Loki,  and  they  twain,  fire  blent  with  fire, 
A  blazing  one,  as  one  shall  fail  and  sink — 
An  extinguished  flame.     Ev'n  thus  intrepid  Tyr, 
With  Garm  in  combat,  shall  lie  dead  beside 
His  strangled  foe.     So  each  shall  seek  his  mate, 
Inexorably  armed  with  equal  rage. 
So  each  shall  fall,  victor  by  victim  slain — 
One  triumph,  one  reward,  one  death  for  all. 
Alone  the  sons  of  Muspell,  radiant 
With  lustre  insupportable,  shall  still 
Aloof  and  silent  stand,  their  dazzling  breath 
Outblown  upon  the  wind  like  fiery  flowers 
That  blossom  as  they  perish. 

Then,  ah,  then 

Surtur  the  Mighty  shall  unfold  the  gates 
Of  the  far  South !     Swift  from  the  luminous  land, 
Muspell,  shall  pour  an  incandescent  flood 
In  mass  and  brilliance  comparable  to  naught 
The  mind  hath  power  to  image,  that  shall  sweep 


Rag'naroK  145 

From  end  to  end  of  the  wide  universe, 
Worlds,  with  their  moons,  for  fuel  piled  on  worlds ; 
Suns  tossed  on  suns ;  systems  on  systems  heaped ; 
Meteors  for  sparks,  comets  for  kindling  straws; 
And  at  the  last,  to  the  minutest  ash, 
Extinction  absolute;  space  cleansed  and  bare. 

So  shall  the  imperfect  order  of  the  old 
Be  done  away,  as  Odin,  king  of  gods, 
Anguished  foreknows;  and  from  the  Land  of 

Light, 

From  the  bright  bosom  of  its  burning  seas, 
Shall  rise  amain  a  new  fair  firmament 
Star-filled :  a  new  sun  in  the  highest  Heaven 
More  glorious  than  all  the  suns  that  were, 
And  a  new  Earth,  lovely  and  verdurous, 
Whose  day  shall  end  not,  nor  whose  summer  fade. 
And  lo !  a  new  Asgard  shall  be  again, 
With  nobler  halls,  where  greater  gods  shall  keep 
A  more  exalted  state.     And  in  their  midst, 
Won  back  from  Hel,  sceptred  and  crowned  with 

light, 

Baldur  the  Beautiful  shall  live  for  aye, 
And  Night,  and  Hate,  and  Woe  shall  be  no  more. 


This  Odin's  vast  omniscient  eye  foresees, 
Piercing  futurity  with  wisdom  bought 
From  Mimir's  limpid  well,  and  evermore 


146  Baldxir  the   Beautiful 

The  knowledge  like  a  wanton  weed  o'erruns 
The  garden  of  his  thoughts.     But  in  his  soul 
He  shuts  the  vision  close,  and  dwells  apart, 
Disjoined  by  wisdom,  from  the  multitude. 

Thus  still  he  sits,  majestic  and  remote, 
Upon  his  disillusioned,  darkened  throne, 
Watching  the  moving  worlds,  aye  and  anon 
Catching  the  gleam,  intolerably  bright, 
From  far  Muspell;   then  bows  his  august  head, 
And  murmurs:    "Ragnarok!" 

And  still  doth  Heimdall  blow  the  Gjallar  Horn; 
And  still  the  ^Esir  their  white  horses  ride 
Across  the  Rainbow  Bridge  with  idle  shield 
And  lowered  lance;  still  meet  in  Asgard's  Halls, 
And  under  mighty  Yggdrasil  discourse 
Of  great  deeds  done  and  greater  yet  to  do — 
Thor  with  his  mallet,  Tyr  with  handless  wrist — 
Reck  not  of  Fenrir,  nor  of  Jormungard, 
Safe  fettered  both,  with  Garm,  the  monster  dog; 
Laugh  when  Earth  trembles  under  Loki's  throes; 
Taste  of  Idun's  well-guarded  golden  fruit, 
And,  young  again,  forget  dread  Ragnarok — 
Somewhat,  as  swift  the  centuries  slip  by, 
Forget  ev'n  Baldur. 

But,  from  Fensalir 

Where  Frigga  sits,  who  listens  close  may  note 
Day  following  day,  year  following  year,  a  sigh 


RagnaroK  147 

Upon  the  fainting  breeze  float  softly  past, 
May  see  a  tear  drop  with  the  dew,  may  catch 
A  distant  cry  of  love  unutterable — 
"Baldur!  alas!  Baldur,  my  son,  my  son! 
Baldur  the  Beautiful !     Alas !     Alas ! " 


The  Nun  of  Kent 

A  Historical  Drama 


149 


TO 

ROBERT  UNDERWOOD   JOHNSON 


151 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

EDWARD  BOOKING 

ROBERT  BERING 

RICHARD  RYSBY         ^    Monks  of  Canterbury  Priory 

HUGH  RICH 

HENRY  GOOLD 

CUTHBERT  VANE 

THOMAS  CRANMER 

HUGH  LATIMER 

THOMAS  CROMWELL 

ELIZABETH,  The  Nun  of  Kent 

MISTRESS  VANE,  Mother  of  Cuthbert 

MISTRESS  COBB,  Former  Mistress  of  Elizabeth 

PRISON  ATTENDANT 

GUARDS,    SOLDIERS,    FRIARS    MENDICANT,    OBSERVANT 
FRIARS,  PEASANTS,  ETC. 

The  scene   is  laid,  first  in   Canterbury,  and  afterward  in 
London 


152 


ACT  I 

(SCENE  i — The  square  outside  the  Priory  chapel  of 
Canterbury.  CUTHBERT  standing  a  little  apart. 
MISTRESS  VANE  and  MISTRESS  COBB  talking. 
A  procession  of  Pilgrims  issuing  from  the 
chapel  doors,  and  continuing  to  pass,  brokenly, 
during  the  scene.  A  few  peasants  leave  its 
ranks  to  join  the  two  women.} 
OLD  PEASANT:  A  goodly  saint, — a  goodly 

saint  enow! 
SECOND  PEASANT    (awestruck):    Seemed   she 

not  wrapt  and  fearsome? 
THIRD  PEASANT:  Past  concept. 

FOURTH  PEASANT:    I  am  a-tremble  yet. 
SECOND  PEASANT:  My  knees  turn  weak 

To  think  on  't.     Where  then  was  her  soul,  the 

while 
Her    body    lay    there    breathless?    Was 't    in 

Heaven? 

VOICES  TOGETHER:  Ay!  Ay! 
THIRD  PEASANT:  Heard'st  thou 

not  Father  Bocking  tell 
Her  holy  state  in  paradise,  mid  sights 
i53 


154  THe  Nxin  of  Rent  ACT  i 

And  sounds  earth  scarce  may  dare  to  think 

upon? 

MISTRESS  COBB:     Ay,    marry,    a    right    fa 
voured  saint  is  ours. 
Give  heed  to  her. 

MISTRESS  VANE    (scornfully}:     All    England 

heeds  but  her. 
MISTRESS  COBB:    That  doth  it.     Our  sweet 

Saint  Elizabeth, 

Our  saint  of  Canterbury,  Nun  of  Kent, 
Hath  wider  fame  than  any  in  the  land. 

OLD  PEASANT:     Who  would  ha'  thought  it 

five  twelvemonths  agone 
Of  orphaned  Beth,  our  little  village  lass? 
Oh,  fair  enow,  but  no  wise  wonderful. 
Nay,  ower  light,  and  trifling  in  her  speech. 
MISTRESS  COBB:     Tut,   tut!     A   king   needs 

grow  through  babyhood, 
Yet  no  less  king  is  when  he  dons  the  crown 
Because  he  erst  was  hushed  on  woman's  knee 
And  fed  on  pap. 

CUTHBERT   (turning  toward  the  group):    Nor 

she  thereby  less  saint, 

That  she  hath  leapt  so  sudden  to  such  height? 
OLD  PEASANT:    It  was  a  miracle  our  Lady 

wrought. 
SECOND  PEASANT:    A  miracle  in  guerdon  for 

her  faith 

What  time  that  fever  lay  so  hot  on  her, 
When  she  did  pray  our  Lady  lend  her  grace. 


sc.  i  TKe  Nvin  of  Rent  155 

f  OLD  PEASANT:     Wherefore   our   Lady   came, 

and  with  a  touch 

Healed  her  and  made  her  saint  for  that  her  faith. 
CUTHBERT  :    For  that  her  faith  in  priests — no 

fairer  faith! 
*T  was  the  priests  sainted  her. 

MISTRESS  COBB:  Go  to!  Go  to! 

One  reasons  not  with  thee.  Thou  lost  thy  lass 
That  day  we  won  our  blessed  saint  of  Heaven, 
And  dost  begrudge  us  her. 

MISTRESS  VANE  (proudly) :    My  son  's  no  one 

To  grudge  a  maiden  to  ye.     Keep  your  saint! 

OLD  PEASANT:    'T  is  pity,  though.     He  loved 

her  sin'  so  long. 
CUTHBERT:    Prithee,  have  done.     Thy  pity 

runs  to  waste. 

Our  Lady,  with  that  selfsame  holy  touch 
That  sainted  Beth,  did  heal  me  of  my  loss. 
I  leave  thee  thy  sweet  saint.    She 's  none  o'  mine. 

(Exit.) 
OLD  PEASANT:     Brave   words   make    goodly 

corselets  o'er  weak  hearts. 
MISTRESS  VANE:    Beshrewthee!     Cuthbert's 

none  to  mourn  a  lass, 
Or  make  lament  for  a  spoiled  kiss  or  two. 
If  Heaven  proclaims  her  for  a  saint,  it  sure 
Counts  him  no  lack  of  honour  that  he  first 
Won  her  whom  Heaven  did  later  thus  becrown. 
What  heart  of  us,  but  Cuthbert,  guessed  her 
worth? 


156  THe  N\in  of  Rent  ACT  i 

I  've  heard  thee  rate  her,  Mistress  Cobb,  full  oft 
And  sore,  in  saint  less  days  at  Aldington 
When  she  o'ermuch  did  dally  at  her  task, 
Or  flirt  too  many  of  those  graces  out 
That  Heaven — and  Cuthbert — so  approved  in 
her. 

MISTRESS  COBB:    No  sign  o'  saintship  was 

upon  her  then, 

When  she  was  serving  wench  to  me  and  mine. 
That  swear  I  by  all  saints. 

PEASANT:  Good  Lord!    Beware! 

Ye  speak  o'er  freely  of  who  is  a  saint. 

MISTRESS  COBB:     I   mean   her   no   disgrace. 

I  bate  my  breath 

And  sign  the  cross  when  I  bespeak  her  now. 
Have  I  not  journeyed  sin'   cockcrow,  to  pay 
Her  dole  for  prayer  I  one  time  paid  for  wage? 
She  bears  me  naught  of  malice.     But  to-day 
I  lost  her  a  good  groat  to  pray  for  me 
And  mine. 

MISTRESS  VANE  :  I  ween  she  'd  pray  thee  out 

o'  Heaven, 
For  half  o'  that  she  takes  to  pray  thee  in. 

PEASANT:    Sir  Thomas  More  a  double  ducat 

gave 
To  say  an  Ave  for  him. 

MISTRESS  VANE:  That  must  be 

Dire  needed  grace  which  cost  so  mickle  gold. 

PEASANT:     Wot   ye  that   book  writ   of  her 
oracles? 


SC.  I 


TKe  Nun  of  Rent  15? 


Archbishop  Warham  brought  it  to  King  Hal. 

MISTRESS  VANE:    The  king  made  merry  o  't. 

MISTRESS    COBB    (warmly):     Yea!    Wot    ye 

why? 

Her  holy  revelations  ill  do  fit 
His  will.     Had  she  decreed  that  Catherine 
Was  well  divorced  and  Anne  was  lawful  queen, 
The  king  with  hot  haste  had  put  faith  in  her. 
But  sin'  she  doth  denounce  this  lustful  bond 
The   while    Queen    Catherine   lives,    therefore, 

forsooth, 

Hating  the  truth  for  loving  of  Queen  Anne, 
The  king  makes  truth  a  lie  to  keep  Anne  queen, 
And  disavows  God's  saint. 

MISTRESS  VANE  (impatiently) :    This  Nun  of 

Kent 

Doth  lead  the  English  people  by  the  nose — 
Priests,  prelates,  nobles — all,  save  but  the  king. 

MISTRESS  COBB  (sneer  in  gly)  \    The  king  and 

thee,    shrewd    Mistress    Vane.     I    ween 

She  led  once  e'en  thy  Cuthbert  in  such  wise. 

OLD  PEASANT:    Poor  little  lass!    She  was  a 

winsome  child ; 

Had  a  gay  laugh,  and  a  light  foot  to  dance, 
And  a  sweet  voice  to  sing. 

MISTRESS  VANE:  A  wilful  lass, 

With  never  head  to  learn  nor  hand  to  work. 
And  her  the  priests  have  made  a  saint  of — Beth ! 

PEASANTS:     Our   Lady's  grace!     A   miracle! 

MISTRESS  VANE  (shortly) :  Was  need. 


158  THe  Nun  of  Kent 


ACT 


OLD  PEASANT:  There  's  never  night  but  angels 

visit  her 
Within  her  cell. 

SECOND  PEASANT:    And  once  the  archfiend 

came 

To  wrestle  against  Heaven  for  right  in  her. 
Hast  seen  the  mark  he  burnt  upon  her  arm? 
MISTRESS  VANE    (contemptuously) :    A  birth 
mark,  hidden  in  unsaintly  days 
With  a  smart  riband ! 

PEASANT    (angrily) :  Nay,  it  was  himself 

Laid  his  hot  hand  upon  her,  and  her  flesh 
Scorched  in  quick  horror  of  so  near  approach. 
Ask  Father  Bocking ! 

MISTRESS  VANE  (going) :    Ask  the  archfiend's 

self!  (Exit.) 

MISTRESS  COBB:     How    she    doth   hug   her 

sinful  disbelief! 
She  hath  an  untamed  spirit  and  a  strange. 

PEASANT:    So  her  son  Cuthbert.     Holds  his 

head  as  high 

As  my  Lord  Bishop.  Wears  his  vest  as  proud 
As  't  were  an  ermine  mantle.  Hath  no  word 
For  peasant  folk. 

YOUNG  GIRL:    Nor  smile  for  any  maid. 
He  is  an  austere  man,  grave,  hard,  and  cold. 
MISTRESS  COBB:   Cold  now,  in  that  he  loved 

so  hotly  once 

He  burnt  his  heart  to  ashes — so  methinks — 
Though  fires  that  kindle  slowest,  smoulder  long. 


sc.  ii  THe  N\in  of  Rent  159 

YOUNG  GIRL  :    'T  were  sin  to  love  a  nun  with 

human  love, 

And  she  a  saint.     Sure  now  he  hath  forgot. 
MISTRESS  COBB:     Mayhap.     Try  thy  warm 

smiles  there  an  thou  wilt. 
They  '11  melt  the  granite  sooner. — Well,  good 

folk, 

We  have  long  gossiped.     I  must  hence,  and 
home. 

(Turns  away.) 

PEASANTS:     And    I.    And    I.    The   day   is 
wearing  late. 

(Exeunt.) 

SCENE  n 

(The  Priory  Hall.    FATHERS  BERING,  RYSBY, 
RICH,  and  GOOLD  in  the  foreground,  drinking 
and  dice-throwing.     FATHER  BOOKING  in  the 
background,  walking  slowly  up  and  down.) 
BERING  :    Prithee,  pass  on  the  flagon,  Father 
Goold. 

(To  RICH.) 

Bestir  thee,  Friend.     A  song  to  cheer  the  hour. 
RICH  (sullenly) :    Rouse  Father  Rysby.     (To 

GOOLD.)     S'death !  the  throw  was  mine. 
GOOLD:  By  sainted  Thomas,  never! 
BERING:  Here.     The  bowl. 

(To  RYSBY.) 

Now,  Father,  drench  those  thirsty  lips  of  thine, 
And  give  us  a  rare  tune,  a  sumptuous  strain, 


160  TKe  N\in  of  Rent 


ACT  I 


To  drive  the  echoes  of  our  Matins'  plaint 
From  out  these  dull  old  walls. 

(He  snatches  back  the  flagon.} 
Drat  thee!     Begin. 

RYSBY  (chanting  dolefully):     A-ve-Ma 

BERING  :    Faith,  we  're  deaf  with  Aves !    Blast 
Thy  tongue ! 

BOCKING   (coming  forward):    Truce  to  your 

guzzlings!     Drop  those  dice! 
*T  is  nigh  upon  her  hour. 

GOOLD  (continuing  to  throw):  How  harms  it 
her? 

DERING  (drinking) :   A  taste  hereof  may  lend 

her   weakness   strength. 
Best  call  her  shortly  ere  the  flagon  fail. 

BOCKING  (coming  nearer):     I  said  give  o'er. 

Hark  ye;    give  o'er  ye  must. 
DERING  (putting  down  flagon  sulkily) :    I  wot 

not  wherefore. 
RICH  (looking  up  from  dice) :   Who  made  thee 

our  lord  ? 

BOCKING  (deliberately):    Myself,  out  of  mine 
own  pre-eminence. 

(He  stands  looking  at  them  significantly.) 
DERING:     And  we   obey    thee    out    of    ab- 

jectness 

Of  this  our  serfhood  to  thy  greatness?     Good. 
RICH   (mockingly):    0  blest  harmoniousness ! 

Behold  us  one 
In  lowly-mindedness ! 


sc.  ii  THe  Nxin  of  Itent  161 

RYSBY    (stretching    himself    at    full    length): 

In  lethargy, 

Say  rather.     Easier  were  it  to  obey 
Him  who  asserts  himself,  than  to  contend 
Against  the  assertion.     Father  Booking,  speak. 
I  listen  acquiescent. 

(To  GOOLD,  motioning  toward  a  cushion.) 

Pass  it  here. 

GOOLD    (putting    it    under    his    own    head): 
Thou'rt  fat  enow  to  want  none.     Leave 
it  me. 
RYSBY   (indolently):    Truth.     Thou  art  lean 

with  listing  ower  long 
To  rosy-lipped  confessions  of  sweet  sins. 
Thou  mayest  keep  it,  Father.     Be  it  soft 
As  penance  dealt  to  fair-cheeked  penitents 
By  thine  indulgence. 

BOOKING:  Fools!    What   prate  ye  of ! 

Doth     naught    more    urgently    compel    your 

thoughts 

Than  the  dull  routine  of  the  cloistral  day — 
The  bootless,  sapless,  dead  monotony 
Ye  call  existence? 

RYSBY:  Why  uncharm  our  peace? 

'T  is  a  soft-feathered  nest. 

BERING    (drawing  up  the  flagon):       Where 

wine  fails  not. 

GOOLD:    Nor  low- voiced  penitents  to  shrive. 
RICH  (folding  his  hands  across  his  stomach)' 
And  where 


162  TKe  N-un  of  Rent  ACT  i 

The  Matin  bells  ring  not  too  loud  a  peal 

O'  frosty  mornings,  nor  brown-roasted  ducks 

Have  too  pale  sauce  at  vespers. 

DOCKING  :  Prattle  o'  babes ! 

Is  there  no  nursing  soul  among  ye  all 
Sucketh  some  saving  discontent? 

BERING:  Yea,  then. 

I  'd  brave  damnation  for  a  spicier  draught — 
A  redder,  rarer,  richer,  madder  wine ! 

BOOKING  (coming  close  to  him):    Do  as  I  bid 

thee.     Thou  shalt  quaff  a  wine 
Had  never  peer  in  Canterbury's  best. 

BERING:      Hey?     Thou    hast    pass-keys    to 
the  Bishop's  vault? 

BOOKING  (meaningly):    I  have  a  key  where 
with  I  will  unlock 
A  door  shall  let  thee  to  thy  bishoprick. 

BERING   (rousing):    Faith,  that  were  nobly 

done.     'T  would  please  me  well 
To  don  the  mitre.     What  's  this  magic  key 
Shall  so  My-Lord  me? 

BOOKING  :  Follow  thou  my  lead. 

Myself  will  robe  thee  bishop. 

ALL  (breaking  into  laughter) :          Thou ! 

BERING  (shrugging  his  shoulders) :    He  mouths 
His  speech  as  were  he  my  Lord  Cardinal ! 

BOOKING    (lifting   his   right   hand   solemnly): 
Lord  Cardinal  I  shall  be. 

(The  monks  look  at  him  startled.) 

BERING  (impatiently) :  It  appears 


sc.  ii  THe  Nxin  of  Rent  163 

Thou  'rt    not    afraid   to   step    high — with    thy 

words. 

BOCKING:    Feet   follow  where  words  climb. 
RYSBY   (raising  himself  on  his  elbow):    Thy 

ladder  show. 

Be  it  nor  frail,  nor  steep,  nor  slack  of  base, 
What  is  't  shall  stay  us  mounting  after  thee? 
BOCKING  (still  more  solemnly):    Do  but  my 

bidding,  and  ere  many  moons, 
Honours  ye  dream  not  of  shall  crown  your  faith. 
(He  comes  into  the  midst  of  the  group, 

slowly  scrutinising  each  in  turn.) 
Are  ye  all  one  with  me? 

GOOLD,  RICH,  AND  RYSBY  (impressed) :  Ay. 
BERING  (after  a  pause) :  Ay. 

BOCKING:  To  death? 

BERING:     An    it    be    death    first    robes    me 

bishop,  nay — 

I  thank  thee,  Friend,  better  becomes  me  cowl. 
BOCKING    (raising    his    clenched    hands    high 
with  sudden  passion) :    Oh,   miserly  life 
that  will  not  give  itself 

In  payment  for  its  wishes!     Hark.     My  soul 
Starves  for  the  cardinalate,  and  though  I  reach 
To  snatch  it  through  the  molten  doors  of  hell, 
Yet  will  I  not  give  o'er.     What !     Live  on  here 
This  hemmed-in,  miserable,  mapped-down  life, 
Crushed  to  a  level,  indistinguishable 
In  one  grey  mass  of  insignificance? 
Thrice  better  death  than  life's  oblivion! 


164  The  Nxin  of  Rent 


ACT  I 


Thrice  better  death — thrice  welcome,  if  so  be 
Higher  than  I  stood  living,  it  stand  me  dead! 
BERING:    Oh,  meek  son  of  our  holy  Mother- 
church  ! 

Aptly  such  speech  adorneth  thy  sworn  lips, 
Bleached  with  slow  litanies  and  lowly  creeds ! 
RYSBY  (sinking  back  and  clasping  his  hands 
under    his    head):      Choose    thy    style, 
Father,  Cardinal  or  Pope, 
As     pleaseth    thee.       Who    swooneth    at    no 

height, 
Certes  comes  farthest. 

RICH  (going  w  BOOKING  and  laying  a  hand  on 

his  arm) :   Here.     I  join  with  thee. 
Ambition  is  a  generous  lord  to  serve. 

RYSBY:     Rather  a  monster  tyrant,  niggardly 
Of  wage,  of  service  most  exorbitant, 
Whose  bait  's  a  poisoned  arrow  in  the  flesh, 
Whose  guerdon  is  a  keener  lash  o'  the  whip. 
All  they  who  follow  in  his  glittering  ranks 
Forfeit  content  as  their  enlistment  fee. 
Natheless,  if  drum  allure,  enrol  thee,  pray. 
BERING  :    Two  fools  for  one. 

(BOOKING  looks  round  angrily.) 
RYSBY  (interceding  good-humouredly) :    Whist. 

Whist.     Let  the  word  pass. 
Its  savour  falleth  harmless  from  thee. 

GOOLD  (rising) :  Troth, 

By  thine  own  marking  we  be  all  fools  here, 
With  cowls  for  caps. 


SC.  II 


TKe  Nvin  of  lient  165 


(He  looks  down  at  his  monk's  dress.} 

I  sicken  of  this  jest. 
(He  crosses  over  to  BOOKING.) 
Thou  'rt  in  the  right  of  it.     Show  the  way  out! 
RYSBY:     I    drift    where    strongest    currents 

draw.     To  float 
Is  seemlier  than  to  battle  with  the  tide. 

(He  draws  his  hands  from  under  his  head 

to  count  off  on  his  fingers.} 
Three  of  thy  mind. 

(He  rises  slowly  to  his  feet.} 
The  vortex  sweeps  me  in. 

How  is  't,  pray,  Father  Bering?     Hold'st  alone? 
DERING  (to  BOCKING):  What  plottest  thou? 

If  but  a  tournament 
Of   tongues — words    set    a-tilt    to    amuse    the 

world — 

I'm  naught  for  't.     But,  so  be  it  is  of  deeds — 
Deeds  to  be  done,  schemes  to  be  battled  out, 
Great  purposes  to  grapple  with,  to  twist 
Into  strong  knots  or  hammer  into  shape 
By  sheer  out-putting  strength — I  leap  to  arms! 
BOCKING:     Thy  hand,  Friend! 
BERING:  First  show  thine. 

BOCKING:  So  did  I.     This 

The  stake  I  play  for.     Fame.     High  office. 

BERING:  So. 

And  thy  trump  ace? 

BOCKING:  Elizabeth  of  Kent. 

BERING:    The  Nun? 


166  The  N\in  of  Kent 


ACT  I 


RICH  and  GOOLD:      Our  new-fledged  saint? 

RYSBY    (unwillingly):     Methinks    e'en     now 
Hath  she  o'er  served  us. 

BOOKING:  I  have  measured  her 

And  know  her  powers. 

BERING:  Number  them  us. 

GOOLD:  Sweet  eyes, 

A  dimpled  chin,  a  mouth  that  pouts  to  kiss, 
And  cheeks  a-blush  for  the  mouth's  wayward 
ness — 
These  be  great  powers ! 

RYSBY:  But  win  not  bishopricks. 

BERING:    What  hath  she  saving  comeliness? 

— frail  prop 
To  rest  a  ladder  on! 

RICH:  The  maid  lacks  brains. 

An  ignorant  lass.     A  very  babe  for  thought. 

BOOKING:     The  better  for  our  needs.     Blind 
faith  serves  best. 

RICH:     Bocile  she  is  in  truth. 

BERING  (contemptuously) :  Obedient 

As  echoes  are. 

BOCKING:     She  holds  her  teachings  fast: 
Her  childish  faith  yet  faster.     By  the  rood, 
There  's  never  tool  within  the  universe 
So  fitted  to  our  hand ! 

RICH  :  She  plays  the  saint 

As  one  inspired  of  Heaven. 

RYSBY    (apologetically) :          She  doth  deceive 
Herself  before  all  others. 


sc.  ii  THe  Nun  of  Rent  167 

BOOKING:  '  T  is  on  that 

My  scheme  is  builded.  When  five  years  agone 
I  first  beheld  her  in  that  trance,  and  heard 
Her,  senseless,  babbling  forth  strange  pulpit 

lore 

Held,  parrot-fashion,  by  her  ignorant  ear, 
Then  laid  I  my  mind's  finger  on  her — then — 
Guessing  an  aptitude  for  mimicking 
At  will  of  mine,  as  by  command  of  God 
And  for  high  use,  those  swoons  miraculous 
Whereof  a  timely  physic  bettered  her — 
I  challenged  fate!     To  this  end  have  I  worked; 
Thereto  have  moulded  her;  thus  far  alone. 
Now  must  ye  work  with  me.     The  hour  is  ripe. 

BERING:     Good.     Show  us  of  thy  scheme. 

BOCKING  :  By  yonder  maid, 

The  Nun  of  Kent,  to  shake  a  dynasty. 

RYSBY:     Great  Heavens! 

BERING:  Speak  on! 

BOCKING:  By  yonder  mindless  maid, 

The  Nun  of  Kent,  to  fire  all  England's  blood 
To  white-heat  acts,  dethrone  a  lawless  king, 
Crown  Mary  lawful  queen,  restore  the  Church, 
And  bring  our  country  on  repentant  knees 
To  the  lost  jurisdiction  of  the  Pope. 

RYSBY:    A  breathless  scheme ! 

RICH:  Impossible! 

BERING:  Oh,  bold! 

Oh,   daring,  mad  and  perfect!    (To  BOCKING.) 
Here!     My  hand! 


1 68  THe  Nvm.  of  Rent  ACT  i 

GOOLD     (anxiously):    A    mad    plan,    truly. 

Mad.     And  dangerous. 
BERING     (turning    on    him) :     And    thou  'rt 

afeard,  I  '11  cut  thy  tongue  out,  knave, 
And  let  thee  loose. 

RYSBY  (conciliatory) :  Peace.     Peace. 

Give  breathing  space 

To  view  this  matter  in. — Dethrone  King  Hal, 
Sitting  so  high  up  with  his  ill-got  queen 
And  making  merry  with  the  heretics 
Against  the  Church?     Nay,  I  've  no   love  for 

him. 

But  to  conspire  against  him,  take  his  throne, 
Build  up  another  power — 't  is  a  big  thought, 
That  on  my  stomach  sits  uneasily. 

BOOKING:     Strong  meats  take  slow  digesting. 

Bide  thy  time. 

Thou  'It  grow  to  it.     Once  Mary  on  the  throne, 
The  heretics  are  banished,  Pole  recalled, 
The  Catholic  Church  once  more  supreme,  and 

GOOLD  (uneasily} :   Ay,  we? — sobeit  we  may 
not  fall  amuck 

0'  the  headsman ? 

BERING     (exultingly}:    Ha!     I    scent    arch- 

bishopricks ! 
BOOKING  :     We  who  have  built  shall  have  the 

builders'  meed 

From  her  for  whom  we  builded — Catholic  Mary. 

(A  pause.} 


sc.  in  TKe  Nxin  of  Rent  169 

Enough.     Keep   your  own   counsel,   and  keep 
mine. 
(He  retires  into  the  background  and  resumes 

his  slow  walk.} 
RYSBY  :     What  complot  this,  by  all  the  powers 

of  Heaven, 

To  drop  i'  the  midst  of  us!     Dethrone  the  king! 
Crown  Mary! 

GOOLD  :  And  the  Nun  for  instrument ! 

RICH:     Now  what   a   mind   the  man   hath! 

What  a  brain, 

To  snatch  at  circumstance  and  fashion  fact 
To  fit  his  rude  intent ! 

BERING:  A  master  mind! 

GOOLD:    And  we  its  vassals? 
BERING:  No  shame,  though  so  be. 

High  serving  honours  him  who  serves,  and  mind, 
Like  water,  finds  its  own  just  level.     Ay ! 
I  hail  him  Master ! 

RYSBY:  Whist!     Yon  comes  the  Nun. 

SCENE  in 

(The  same.    Enter    ELIZABETH.     BOCKING  ad 
vances  to  meet  her.} 

BOCKING:     Daughter,  o'er  long  I  wait. 

ELIZABETH    (penitently) :     Father,    forgive ! 
I  was  a-weary. 

BOCKING:  Faints  thy  soul  so  soon? 

Gird  thee  with  resolution  and  toil  on. 
The  children  of  the  world  may  tire;    not  thou. 


170  THe  Nun  of  lient  ACT  i 

ELIZABETH:     Must   I   do   penance   therefor? 

Woe  is  me ! 

This  honourable  saintship  is  a  cross 
To  soul  not  born  to  it. 

BOCKING:  Daughter,  beware! 

Thy  feet  have  far  to  travel  on  high  roads ; 
And  they  to  whom  vouchsafed  so  holy  goal, 
May  own  no  self  to  draw  their  purpose  back 
With  importune  complainings. 

ELIZABETH    (humbly) :  Father,  nay. 

BOOKING:     They  live  but  in  so  far  as  they 

achieve. 

Themselves  are  nothing ;  their  identity 
Blotted  from  sight  in  their  accomplishment. 

ELIZABETH:    Shall  I  account  myself  so  little 
use? 

BOCKING:     Count    thyself    little?     Heavens! 

Pray,  what  art  thou? — 
An  atom  in  a  universe  of  mites. 
The  merest  naught,  in  an  immensity 
Of  moving  cyphers.     Nowhere  canst  thou  find 
A  narrower  bound  of  insignificance 
Than  thine  own  narrow  soul. 

ELIZABETH  (piqued):     And  yet,  methinks, 
So  great  a  task  allotted  me,  concedes 
Somewhat  of  worth  in  e'en  so  small  a  thing. 

BOCKING:    Oh,   vanity  of  creature!     Is  the 

vase 

By  virtue  of  its  contents  brass  or  gold? 
Thou,  thou  art  nothing.     But  thy  task  is — all! 


sc.  in 


The  Nxin  of  Rent  171 


ELIZABETH:     And   if   I   fail?     Will    God   be 

very  wroth? 
BOOKING:     None  fails  whom   God   appoints 

to  service.     Strength 

Matches  the  need ;  hands  shape  themselves  to  fit 
The  given  tool;  backs  bend  to  bear  the  load. 
BERING   (coming  to  her  side) :     Do  but  his 

bidding — that,  thy  talisman! 
ELIZABETH:     Yea,    Father,    yea!     For    ever, 

and  in  all. 

BOCKING:     The  test  is  nigh.     There  is  ac 
corded  thee 

A  marvellous  mission.    Daughter,  thou  art  called 
To  be  thy  country's  saviour. 

ELIZABETH    (recoiling):  Saviour? — I? 

Nay,  Father,  nay !     It  is  enough  of  grace 
But  to  be  Saint  Elizabeth  of  Kent, 
And  fast  long  hours,  and  lead  a  separate  life, 
And  wear  a  bit  of  sackcloth  next  my  heart. 

(She  draws  nearer,  and  pushing  back 
the  nun's  coif,  lifts  the  hair  from  her 
forehead.) 

Father,  my  flesh  is  very  tender.     See! 
I  doubt  me  could  it  brook  a  crown  of  thorns. 
And   must    I,    too,    be   crucified?     (In   sudden 

terror.)     Nay !     nay ! 
Saint  though  I  be,  yet  mortal  am  I  still — 
Pain-fearing  and  joy-loving.     Let  me  from 't ! 
I  could  not  brave  the  shame — the  agony — 
Not  e'en  to  be  a  Saviour ! 


172  THe  N\in  of  Rent  ACT  i 

RYSBY:  Hush,  poor  lamb! 

Thine  ignorance  is  blasphemy.     A  cross 
For    thee!     a    crown    of   thorns! — dear    Lord, 

forgive ! 
RICH  (sneeringly) :     Thy  conscience  doth  wax 

newly  tender,  sure! 
BOCKING  (to  ELIZABETH)  :    Poor  foolish  heart, 

that  sets  its  own  weak  throbs — 
Its  small  fleet  pangs — against  a  future  fame! 
But  dread  nor  cross  nor  crown,  Elizabeth, 
Sainthood  too  high,  nor  too  great  martyrdom; 
Thou  art  not  formed  thereto. 

ELIZABETH  (eagerly):  I  crave  it  not. 

To  be  a  saint,  and  so  feel  sure  of  Heaven, 
Yet  not  so  much  a  saint  but  that  I  may 
Retain  somewhat  of  earth,  sufficeth  me. 

RYSBY:    To  be  content  with  what  one  hath,  is 

Heaven. 
BOOKING  (impatiently):    This  earth  hath  no 

contentment!     That  we  call 
By  so  poor  name  is  but  surrendering 
Our  slavish  necks  to  whatever  yoke  there  be — 
A  dull  acceptance  of  the  inevitable, 
A  lifeless  bearing  of  some  dragging  cross 
Our  cowardice  dares  not  free  us  from.     Nay! 

Nay! 

Ambition,  aspiration,  hope,  are  naught 
But  discontent  endowed  with  angel  wings. 
'T  is  better  starve  for  the  divine,  than  feast 
Upon  unworthy  meats! — Elizabeth, 


sc.  in  TKe  Nvin  of  Rent  173 

What  wert  thou  when  I  found  thee?     Simple; 

poor; 
Untaught ;   despised  of  all. 

ELIZABETH  (softly) :  Nay,  not  of  all. 

There  was  one  loved  me. 

BOOKING:  Now,  contrast  thy  state. 

Commissioned  prophetess  of  Heaven's  decree — 
The  faith,  the  pride  of  multitudes.     And  lo, 
Thine  award  is  but  half  granted.     Thou  shalt  on 
To  fame  immortal  as  high  Heaven. 

ELIZABETH  (sorrowfully) :  Ah  me! 

Hath  God  some  revelation  newly  sent? 

BOOKING:     To  thee;   not  yet  to  all. 

ELIZABETH  (sighing):  Ay,  Father. 

BOOKING  (solemnly):  Kneel. 

(ELIZABETH  kneels.) 
Hast  thou  confest  to-day? 

ELIZABETH:  My  every  sin. 

BOOKING:    Hast  thou  had  absolution? 

ELIZABETH:  Father,  yea. 

BOOKING  (peremptorily  to  the  monks):    Kneel! 

GOOLD    (muttering) :  Is  't  for  long? 

RYSBY  (pushing  down  RICH)  :     Let  me  assist 

thee,  Friend, 
To  the  unaccustomed  rite. 

BOOKING:  My  Daughter,  hark. 

There  have  this  day  in  deep  ecstatic  dreams, 
Been  shown  me  mighty  things.     All  I  have  seen, 
All  I  have  heard,  may  I  no  man  declare. 
This  only  was  I  bid  reveal  to  thee. 


174  THe  Nun  of  K.ent  ACT  i 

ELIZABETH  (crossing  herself) :     I  listen. 

BOCKING   (slowly  and  forcibly) :    Henry,  who 

now   England   rules, 
Rules  not  himself.     Henry,  whom  God  made 

king, 
Obeys   not   God.     Henry,   whom   Heaven   did 

crown, 

Defieth  Heaven.     And  lo!  his  hour  is  come. 
This  England,  that  he  rules,  shall  out-rule  him. 
God,  who  did  crown  him,  shall  strike  off  that 

crown, 
And  Heaven,  that  was  his  aid,  abandon  him. 

ELIZABETH:     Oh,    poor    King    Henry!     poor 
King  Hal! 

BOOKING:  Put  by 

Thy  puny  pity !     Know  but  scorn  for  him 
Who  calling  himself  monarch,  is  yet  slave 
Chained  to  his  smallest,  weakest,  vilest  lust! 
Who,  sitting  on  a  throne,  conceives  he  shows 
Vice  regal,  so  he  lift  it  to  his  side! 
Who  thinks  he  makes  crime  lawful  by  high  sins 
In  consecrated  places!     Spare  thy  grief, 
And  lend  thee  to  the  speedy  furtherance 
Of  Heaven's  great  purposes.     Dethrone  the  king, 
And  crown  his  daughter  queen! 

BERING:  Oh,  royal  scheme! 

ELIZABETH  (aghast) :    Nay,  what  can  I  in  so 
grave  matter? 

BOCKING:  All. 

GOOLD  (aside,  rising) :    My  knees  wax  lame. 


sc.  in  The  N\in  of  Rent  175 

RYSBY  :  Methinks  it  were  no  lack 

Of  reverence  to  edge  a  cushion  in. 

(He  pulls  up  a  pillow  and  gradually 
slips  into  recumbent  position.) 

BERING    (absorbed     in     BOOKING'S     words): 
Whence  got  yon  man  his  power ! 

RICH   (scowling):     From  Heaven — or  hell — 
It  matters  not. 

BERING  :  Wondrous  concept ! 

BOOKING  :  Arise, 

Elizabeth  of  Kent!  Stand  forth!   (To  the  monks.) 

Behold! 

Bo  ye  here  one  and  all  engage  yourselves 
True  followers  of  this  our  saint  ? 

BERING,  RICH,  and  GOOLD  (heartily) :    We  do ! 

BOCKING  (to  RYSBY)  :     Thou,  Father,  answer. 

RYSBY  (reluctantly) :   The  crowd  sweeps  me  on. 
Perforce  I  follow. 

BOCKING  (to  ELIZABETH)  :    Here  be  five  of  us 
Sworn  to  command  in  this  most  righteous  cause. 
Without  waits  all  of  England  that  we  come 
To  mete  out  justice  in  the  name  of  Heaven, 
Whilst  thou,  here,  there,  and  yonder,  as  I  bid 
Thee  speak,  shalt  lend  in  secrecy  thy  voice 
To  syllable  God's  will. 

ELIZABETH:  In  secrecy? 

BOCKING:     So  great  a  truth  thrown  open  on 

the  world, 

Would  blind  with  its  immensity  of  light. 
Through  thee  it  shall  fall  softly  on  veiled  eyes. 


176  THe  Nvin  of  Rent  ACT  i 

ELIZABETH:    And  thou  wilt  train  my  tongue 
to  speech? 

BOCKING  :  The  same 

As  Heaven  hath  deigned  teach  me. 

ELIZABETH  :  And  is  it  bid 

I  still  avow  the  revelation  mine? 

BOCKING:     Thine    is    the    revelation,    I    its 

voice, — 
Thus   Heaven  doth   shield  its  frailer  souls, — 

lest  thou, 

Sudden  admitted  to  such  mysteries, 
Should'st  perish,  blasted  with  their  ecstasy. 
But  thine  the  revelation — thine,  not  mine. 

RYSBY  :     Truth.     Thine,  not  his.— Blest  Mary 

and  dear  Christ, 
'T  is  a  droll  world  we  live  in ! 

ELIZABETH:  A  strange  world, 

And  I,  methinks,  the  strangest  figure  in  't. 
I  no  more  know  myself.     I  am  unlike 
All  that  was  me.     First  was  I  little  Beth, 
With  a  rare  lover,  and  no  thought  or  care 
More  than  the  singing  bird  that  seeks  the  sun. 
Then  came  that  sickness  on  me,  and  so  thou 
Didst  call  me  in  God's  name  to  be  a  saint. 
And  I  did  put  my  youth  and  lover  by. 
Then  was  I  St.  Elizabeth  of  Kent, 
And  did  long  penances  and  made  great  prayers, 
And  taught  the  folk  all  thou  hadst  taught  to  me 
Of  law,  and  of  God's  anger  with  the  king; 
And  so  grew  famous,  and  less  happy  far. 


sc.  in  TKe  Nxin  of  Rent  177 

And  now  what  am  I?     What  must  grow  to  be? 
More  than  I  am,  yet  oh !  less  than  I  was ; — 
My  country's  Saviour — and  unhappier. 
Can  one  be  made  great  with  a  little  soul? 
This  greatness  lies  upon  me  like  a  pall, 
Covering  my  dead  youth  with  a  sombre  state 
That  bids  me  weep. 

BOOKING:    There  speaks  the  village  lass — 
No  more  the  saint. 

ELIZABETH  :  Father,  forgive  the  maid, 

Who  in  her  sainthood  misses  her  lost  self. 
Death,  consecrator  of  all  things,  makes  even 
Our  dead  selves  not  unworthy  of  our  tears. 
It  is  a  passing  tribute.     I  have  done. 

BOCKING:    Hail,  St.  Elizabeth  of  Kent,  our 

chief, 
Our  guide  to  truth,  to  victory,  to  power! 

ALL:     Hail,  hail,  thrice  hail  to  St.  Elizabeth! 

ELIZABETH  (falling  on  her  knees):    God  help 
me !     I  am  wondrous  frail  and  weak. 

BOOKING   (inciting  the  others):    Hail!     Hail! 

ALL:  Hail,  St.  Elizabeth! 

ELIZABETH    (weeping):  Ah  me! 

(The  curtain  falls .) 


ACT  II 

(SCENE  I — The  square  outside  the  Priory.     The 
chapel   on    one   side.      The   convent    of   St. 
Sepulchre  on  the  other  behind  high  walls.     A 
brilliant  moon  floods  the  scene.     CUTHBERT 
seated  on  a  bench  in  the  foreground.     MIS 
TRESS  VANE  standing  near.     The  chapel  bells 
chime,  followed  by  twelve  slow  strokes.} 
CUTHBERT:     Midnight.     How  lag  the  hours! 
MISTRESS  VANE:     Son,  Son,  come  home! 
CUTHBERT:    The  moon  makes  night  forget 

her  errand.     Hark ! 
Was  that  a  gate  jarred  yonder? 

MISTRESS  VANE  :  Cuthbert ! 

CUTHBERT:  Peace. 

Hark !     (Listens  anxiously.) 

MISTRESS  VANE:    Nay,  'twas  nothing,  no 
thing. 

CUTHBERT  :  'T  was  a  hope 

Stirred  low  within  me. 

MISTRESS  VANE:       Wherefore  watch  so  long? 
What  good  can  it  betide  thee  though  she  come? 
CUTHBERT:    What   good?     Ay,   none.     'T  is 
slaking  my  mad  thirst 
178 


sc.  i  THe  N\in  of  Rent  179 

With  salted  water.     Yet  the  parching  tongue 
Still  drinks. 

MISTRESS  VANE:    Out  on  thee!    Shall  love 

bind  thee  aye 

In  serfdom  to  such  folly?     Be  again 
A  man.     Shake  off  this  despicable  thrall 
It  shames  thee  to  remember. 

CUTHBERT:  Folly?     Shame? 

A  despicable  weakness?     These  be  names 
For  woman's  love — not  man's. 

MISTRESS  VANE  :  Or  man's  or  maid's 

As  liketh  thee,  but  leave  off  loving! 

CUTHBERT:  Ay. 

When  I  shall  leave  off  living. 

MISTRESS  VANE:  Fool!     Pluck  love 

From  out  thy  bosom !    Rouse  thee !    Be  at  heart 
The  cold  proud  man  thou  puttest  on  by  day. 

CUTHBERT:   I  weary  waiting.    Send  her  forth 
to  me. 

MISTRESS  VANE:     Others  there  be  a  plenty 

at  thy  call. 
Get  thee  another  love. 

CUTHBERT:  Go  send  her  forth. 

MISTRESS  VANE:     Now  that  I  will  not! 

CUTHBERT:  Pass  through  yonder  gate, 

Unbarred — by  miracle ! — that  she  be  free 
At  will  o'  the  chapel  road,  when  prayer  con 
strains. 

The  way  is  open  to  her  cell.     Knock  soft, 
And  bid  her  come  to  me. 


i8o  The  Nun  of  Rent 


ACT  II 


MISTRESS  VANE:  I  go  not  hence. 

CUTHBERT:     Bid   her   make   speed.     I   wait 

her  coming  long. 

MISTRESS  VANE:     She  sleeps  by  this. 
CUTHBERT:     She  doth  not  sleep.     She  wakes. 
Am  I  not  waking? 

MISTRESS  VANE  (tries  the  convent  gate,  finds  it 
unlocked,    hesitates,    and    turns    back   to 
CUTHBERT):     Prithee,  list;  give  o'er 
A  love  that  doth  unman  thee.     Yon  frail  lass 
Was  aye  unworthy  thee. 

CUTHBERT    (turning  upon   her  fiercely):    Be 

still! — And  go. 

MISTRESS  VANE:    Was   ever  love  like  this! 
(Exit  reluctantly  through  convent  gate.) 

SCENE  n 
(CUTHBERT  alone.) 

CUTHBERT:  Was  ever  love 

Unlike  my  love?     Then  never  was  that  love. 
A  love  that  metes  itself  out  thus  and  so 
According  to  the  measure  that  it  gets — 
A  love  that  yields  itself  to  reason's  check 
And  may  unmake  or  make  itself  at  will — 
A  love  that  prates  of  worthiness  in  one 
It  loves — counts  out  the  virtues — sums  them  up 
As  thus  and  whys  for  loving  ere  it  loves — 
That  is  no  love  at  all,  nor  needs  a  name. 
But  love  as  I  know  love,  a  madness  is 


sc.  in  The  Nun  of  Rent  181 

Saner  than  reason;   oh,  a  weakness  is 
Stronger  than  strength,  a  folly  above  wit. 
Not  for  the  love  she  bore  me  loved  I  her, 
Nor  for  my  joy  in  her,  nor  for  the  need 
I  had.     I  loved  her  because  Love,  one  noon, 
Descending  out  of  space,  chanced  where  we  were, 
Wrapped  us  in  its  huge  shadow,  blinded  us, 
Took  her  and  me  in  its  titanic  grasp, 
And  shook  our  souls  together. 

(He  relapses  into  silence,  then  springs 
up  and  stands  listening  intently.) 

SCENE  in 

CUTHBERT  (standing.     Enter  THE  NUN.     MIS 
TRESS  VANE  comes  out  from  the  convent  with 
her,  and  disappears  behind  the  chapel.) 
ELIZABETH  (softly,  from  the  distance) :    Cuth- 

bert! 
CUTHBERT    (holding    out    his    arms,    without 

moving  from  the  spot) :     Thou ! 
ELIZABETH  (coming  nearer) :    Cuthbert ! 
CUTHBERT    (springing  suddenly  toward  her): 

Beth— Beth— my  little  Beth! 
ELIZABETH  (motioning  him  back) :    Nay,  soft. 
Come  not  anear.     Not  little  Beth  I  am, 
But  St.  Elizabeth— the  Nun— the  Saint— 
And  thine  no  more.      Thou  may'st  not  come  so 

nigh. 
I  have  outgrown  thy  love. 

CUTHBERT:  Nay,  little  Beth, 


1 82  TKe  Nvin  of  Rent  ACT  n 

Thou   hast   outgrown   thine   own   love.     Mine 

thou  hast 
Not  yet  reached  up  to — nay,  nor  ever  canst. 

ELIZABETH:     Thy  loving  must  be  very  great 

indeed, 

To  stand  so  high  above  me — I  a  saint, 
And  pinnacled  anear  to  Heaven ! 

CUTHBERT:  Thou! 

Thou  art  no  saint,  Beth.     Thou  art  only  Beth, 
Grown  thus  much  older,  tricked  out  as  a  nun, 
And  taught  a  longer,  sadder  way  to  pray ; — 
Only  my  little  lass,  priest-caught,  and  dragged 
From  out  her  world  to  one  she  fits  not. 

ELIZABETH  :  Truth. 

I  was  not  fitted  to  it,  heart  nor  soul. 
I  would  have  given  all  my  sainthood  up, 
But  to  be  left  with  thee  and  be  thy  wife, 
And  live  my  little  humble  glad  life  out 
In  unambitious  quiet  by  thy  side, 
If  but  it  could  have  been ! 

CUTHBERT  :  Prove  these  thy  words ! 

Give  up  the  falsehood  now !   Come  forth  with  me, 
And  be  my  very  wife!     Oh,  better  far 
Be  true  man's  wife  than  false  priests'  fraud! 

Come  Beth, 

Thou  heart  and  soul  of  me!     Thou  dearer  self! 
(He  springs  toward  her.     She  retreats.} 

ELIZABETH:     Stand   back!     Away  from  me! 

No  profane  hand 
May  dare  approach  me ! 


SO.  Ill 


THe  Nuin  of  Kent  183 


CUTHBERT  (drawing  back) :     Hath  the  hand  of 

love 

Aught  in  't  of  desecration?  Mistaught  child, 
What  can  thy  priests  reveal  to  thee  more  pure, 
More  holy  than  love  is? — Fear  not.  Fear  not, 
Thou  little  mimic  saint — thou  sweetest  lie 
That  ever  stole  Truth's  garb — thou  fairest  fraud 
That  ever  fooled  men's  sense!  I  '11  touch  thee 

not. 

What  boots  it?     We  are  cleft  too  far  apart 
For  any  bridging  of  the  difference. 
Thou  'rt  fallen  from  me,  Beth,  not  grown  from 

me, 
Else  had  I  borne  it. 

ELIZABETH  :  Thou  art  bitter !    Thou ! 

Thou,  once  so  tender  with  me,  thou  alone 
Holding  me  high  when  others  held  me  low, 
Now  thou  alone  of  all  disclaimest  me. 
Cuthbert,  take  back  thy  words.     They  stab  me 

here. 

(She  puts  her  hands  to  her  breast.) 
Rather  I  would  the  whole  world  thought  me 

false, 

And  thou  hadst  faith  in  me.     Seest  thou  not 
Thy  doubt  professeth  so  a  doubt  of  God? 

CUTHBERT:    Thou  dost  deceive  thyself,  Beth, 

and  the  world. 

Me  thou  canst  not  deceive.     I  love  too  true. 
ELIZABETH:     I    do    prefer    thine    old    ways, 

the  old  names 


184  THe  N\*n  of  Rent  ACT  n 

That  rang  so  softly — the  old  blind  dear  love 
That  owned  no  fault  in  me  when  I  had  most. 
Oh,  I  have  not  forgotten!     I  recall 
Through  all  the  dignity  of  my  high  state 
Those  days  when  I  was  nothing  save  to  thee, 
And  owned  naught,  save  thy  love.     And  oft — 

oh,  oft!— 

My  soul  is  sick  with  longing — sick  to  pain — 
With    yearning    for    those    days,    and    thee. 

Chide  not. 

I  know  such  speech  is  sin — know  I  must  make 
To-morrow  penance  therefor.     But  to-night — 
To-night  I  cannot  put  this  sweetness  by. 
I  knew  thou  cam'st  to-night.     I  felt  thee  near, 
As  April  feels  the  bourgeoning  in  her  blood 
Before  the  bloom  unsheathes.     And  in  my  heart 
The  old  love  burst  its  bonds  and  leaped  to  thine, 
As  breaks  the  torrent  through  its  frozen  shroud 
At  call  of  summer  sun.     Oh,  dear  my  love, 
Let  me  remember  but  this  one  night  more, 
And  be  thy  Beth  again!     See,  'neath  my  cloak 
(she  divides  its  long  folds) 
I  have  put  on  the  gown  I  used  to  wear, 
And  on  mine  arm  the  riband — on  my  neck 
The  chain  that  thou  didst  give  me. 

(She  throws  off  the  Nun's  cloak  and  hood, 
and  stands  dressed  in  a  peasant's 
costume.) 

Cuthbert,  see. 
Am  I  not  fair  to-night  as  then  I  was? 


sc.  in  THe  Nvin  of  Rent  185 

CUTHBERT  (covering  his  eyes) :   Beth — Beth — 
ELIZABETH    (slipping   the   chain   through   her 

fingers  as  if  it  were  a  rosary) :  I  have  such 

pretty  trinkets  now, — 
Such  jewels,  Cuthbert!     Thou  should'st   only 

see. 

Good  Father  Bocking  holds  them  for  the  poor, 
For  saints  may  love  no  vanities,  he  saith. 
The  people  bring  them  to  me  for  my  prayers; 
And  gold,  too;   but  the  baubles  please  me  best. 
'T  is    pity   nuns   forswear   them.     They   show 

bright 

Across  the  black,  and  do  become  me  well. 
Sometimes  at  dusk  when  I  have  done  my  beads, 
I  deck  me  out  in  them,  breast,  arms,  and  hair, 
And  stand  back — thus — and  lift  my  head  up  high, 
And  fancy  I  'm  a  queen, — and  long  for  thee! 
Tell  me — thou  art  so  still — am  I  less  fair? 
CUTHBERT:     Would   Heaven   thou   wert,   or 

that  I  thought  thee  so. 
ELIZABETH:     Then   am   I   grown   less   dear? 

What  merit  lacks? 
Hast  thou  no  little  pretty  word  to  say 
For  but  this  night,   dear  Cuthbert — but  this 

night? 
CUTHBERT    (hotly):    Why  only  for  to-night? 

Is  love  a  gem 

To  put  on  or  fling  off  as  folly  bids? 
Not  only  for  to-night,  but  for  alway 
List  to  me,  Beth  ! 


1 86  TKe  N\*n  of  Rent 


ACT  II 


ELIZABETH  (wistfully,  drawing  nearer) :    I  am 

not  grown  less  fair, 
Less  dear  to  thee? 

CUTHBERT  (passionately):    By  Heaven,  thou 

art  more  vain, 

And    foolisher,    less    worthy   and    more   weak, 
Yet — O  God ! — dearer — dearer — dearer ! 

ELIZABETH  (wounded,  and  drawing  back) :  Nay ! 
Not  vainer!     Nay,  more  humble  am  I  grown, 
Being  more  worthy  than  I  was  of  old. 
How  else  were  I  made  saint?     Thou  dost  not 

dream 

The  life  I  live — all  penance,  study,  prayer. 
CUTHBERT:     Leave  off  such  lessoning!     The 

priests  blind  thee 

With  the  allurements  of  their  serpent  wiles. 
Have  done  with  this  long  mummery.   Come  back 
To  thine  old  childlike  truth  and  loyalty. 

ELIZABETH:     Time  was  there  when  it  vext 

me  sore  to  know 

I  might  not  leave  this  new  life  for  the  old — 
Give  up  all  else  and  keep  but  thee.     But  now — 

0  Cuthbert,  God  hath  called  me  to  great  things — 
Greater  than  love  of  thine  could  e'er  devise. 

1  may  not  give  the  great  up  for  the  less. 

One  may  not  choose  one's  life  out — wife  or  saint. 
One  is  what  God  ordains.     See.     I  do  wrong 
In  meeting  thee  to-night.     Ay,  I  do  wrong 
In  loving  thee.     The  saintliest  of  all  hearts 
Are  those  that  love  not,  Father  Bocking  saith. 


sc.  in  The  Nmn  of  Rent  187 

Yet  I,  though  singly  honoured  thus  of  Heaven, 

Find  it  so  hard  to  unlearn  love — find  love 

So  lovely  still.— Hush,  Cuthbert !     This  to-night 

Is  my  farewell.     I  will  not  see  thee  more, 

Nor  love  thee — from  to-morrow.     These  black 

folds  (she  resumes  her  nun's  cloak) 
Shall  be  the  graveclothes  of  my  love.     Thy  Beth, 
Thy  little  Beth  is  dead.     Here.     Take. 

(She  unfastens  the  chain  and  holds  it  out 
to  him.) 

Take  back 

Thy  chain ;  it  binds  too  closely  to  thee  yet ; 
I  may  not  keep  it.     I  have  work  to  do, 
And  thought  of  thee  unnerves  me  for  the  task, 
And  must  not  creep  between. 

(The    chain   falls   from    her  outstretched 
hands  to  the   ground.     He  grinds   it 
under  his  heel  where  it  lies.) 
CUTHBERT:  Would  God  I  stood 

For  ever  betwixt  thee  and  all  mischance! 

ELIZAB  ETH  :     Thy  hurt  hath  warped  thy  brain . 

Didst  thou  know  more, 
Thy  love  itself  would  not  withhold  me  now. 
A  revelation  hath  been  granted  me 
Through   Father   Bocking.     Mock   not,   Cuth 
bert  !     Hear 

How  God  hath  chosen  this  same  witless  lass 
Whom  thou  so  scornest  athwart  all  thy  love — 
Do  the  words  prick  thee? — to  work  out   His 
will, 


1 88  The  Nvin  of  Rent  ACT  n 

Her,  and  those  selfsame  priests  thou  dared'st 

defame. 

All  hath  been  ordered.     But  a  little  space 
And  Henry  who  is  king,  is  king  no  more, 
And  Mary  is  our  queen ! 

CUTHBERT:  Thy  morrow's  screed 

Gotten  by  rote.     Well  conned.     Yet  here  is  none 
To  gape  at  thee.     Thy  scholars  sleep. 

ELIZABETH    (gently) :  Forbear 

Thy  mockery.    The  truth  still  wears  truth's  face, 
Unaltered  by  thy  sneer. 

CUTHBERT:  Or  by  thy  boast. 

Words  shall  not  make  King  Henry  less  a  king, 
Or  Mary  sooner  queen. 

ELIZABETH  (significantly):  Wait,  scoffer,  wait! 
Look  close!     Words  may  go  first,  but  armoured 

deeds 
Shall  follow  with  loud  footsteps ! 

CUTHBERT   (sharply):     Deeds?  What  deeds? 

ELIZABETH  (impressively):     Deeds  that  shall 

make  King  Henry  no  more  king, 
And  crown  his  daughter  queen. 

CUTHBERT:  Great  God,  what  plot 

Is  this! 

ELIZABETH    (pleased    to    have   roused   him) : 
The  plot  that   foreordains  the  fact. 

CUTHBERT  :    Fact  ?— Treason !     Treason  ! 

ELIZABETH   (shocked):    Nay,  dear  Cuthbert, 

nay! 
Treason  is  wrought  of  men.     This  is  an  act 


sc.  in  The  Nvin  of  Rent  189 

Decreed  of  Heaven.  The  king  hath  angered  God, 
For  Henry  hath  done  ill,  and  God  commands 
We  shall  dethrone  him.  We  do  but  effect 
God's  will. 

CUTHBERT:      0  gracious  Heaven,  what  black 

abyss 
Of  crime  is  this !  what  direst  wickedness ! 

ELIZABETH  (very  gravely) :     Now  Heaven  for 
give  thee!     Doth  God  counsel  crime? 
CUTHBERT:     God?     This  is  Devil's  counsel! 

Child!     These  priests 

Decoy  thee  into  lurid  hell!     Beth— Beth — 
When  have  I  ever  lied  to  thee?     I  swear 
By  that  white  love  that  binds  our  souls  in  one, 
This  thing  they  plot  is  treason  black  and  vile ! 
ELIZABETH    (moving  off):    How  dar'st   thou 

so  to  judge  God's  holy  law? 
'Tis  blasphemy! 
CUTHBERT  (following  her) :    Nay,  listen,  listen, 

Beth! 
I  yet  must  save  thee ! 

ELIZABETH  (retreating):    What  would'st  save 

me  from? 

From  serving  God  and  serving  this  my  land 
As  never  maid  but  one  hath  served  before? 
Now  were  I  weak  indeed,  now  truly  frail 
For  wrath  of  thine  to  stay  so  high  resolve. 

(She  passes  quickly  through  the  convent 
gate  and  bars  it.  He  presses  after  her, 
flinging  his  weight  vainly  against  it.) 


190  THe  Nxin  of  Rent  ACT  n 

CUTHBERT:    Beth!    Beth! 

(She  moves  back  to  the  convent  door,  and 

throwing  it  open  turns  and  faces  him 

from  the  threshold,  the  darkness  behind 

her,  and  the  moon  full  upon  her  face.) 

ELIZABETH:     Thou  dost  mistake  me.     Beth 

is  dead. 

I  am  Elizabeth,  the  Nun  of  Kent, 
Saviour  of  England,  and  God's  servitor. 

(She  disappears  through  the  convent  door, 
and  closes  it  behind  her.) 

SCENE  iv 

CUTHBERT  (alone.     He  slowly  withdraws  from  the 

gate,  and  stands  still  in  the  centre  of  the  stage.) 

CUTHBERT:     Is   there   a   Power   above  that 

looks  on  this 

And  suffers  it  to  be  so? — sees  a  soul 
Out  of  its  very  guilelessness  and  trust 
Dragged  down  to  hell,  nor  lifts  a  staying  hand? 
Is  it  or  God  or  Devil  rules  us?     Speak! 
Proclaim  Thee,  God,  by  burst  of  holy  wrath 
Shall  sweep  Earth  clean  of  its  iniquities ! 
Art  Thou  all-perfect  and  canst  brook  such  wrong, 
Rewarding  greed  with  gain,   and  crime  with 

chance, 

And  sin  with  stainless  tools?     0  God!     0  God! 
Or  is  there  no  God  and  no  Devil — naught 
Save  a  vast  superstition  we  call  fate? — 
Naught  higher,  stronger,  holier  than  himself, 


sc.  v  THe  N\in  of  Rent  191 

For  man  to  reach  to  in  a  desperate  need? — 
Oh,  agony — oh,  hell  of  helplessness! 

SCENE  v 
(CUTHBERT  and  MISTRESS  VANE.) 

MISTRESS   VANE:     Yet  here?     Hold'st  thou 

the  ground  she  trod  so  dear 
Thou  canst  not  leave  it  ? 

CUTHBERT    (passionately) :     I    hold    nothing 

dear 

In   the  wide   earth, — nor   herself,   nor  myself, 

Nor  thyself,  who  did'st  bear  me  for  this  hour! 

MISTRESS  VANE:    Was  it  such  joy  to  bear 

thee,  dost  thou  think, 
Thy   hate   compensates  for  the  birth  throes? 

How 

Am  I  despoiler  of  thy  destiny 
Giving  thee  life?  '  Hate  first  my  mother,  save 
For  whom  I  had  not  been  to  bear  thee. 

CUTHBERT:  Nay. 

Earth  hath  not  room  enough  for  all  the  hate 
Should  fill  it,  did  men  hate  where  hate  were  due. 
MISTRESS   VANE    (her  voice  changing) :     Nor 

space  hath  only  for  the  love  that  fills 
A  single  mother-heart. 

(She  comes  up  to  him  tenderly.} 

OCuthbert!     Son! 

Would  God  thou  wert  again  the  little  child 
Upon  my  knee,  to  whom  the  mother-love 


192  THe  Nun  of  Kent  ACT  n 

Was  all  sufficient  for  the  moment's  need; 

Now  outgrown  hast  thou  the  sufficiency, 

Yet  not  the  need. 

CUTHBERT:     Forgive!     The    poisoned    heart 

Drops  gall  on  whom  stands  nighest. 

MISTRESS  VANE:  To  forgive 

Were  to  concede  offence.    Sweet  son,  come  home. 

CUTHBERT:     Home?    What  is  home?    A  gar 
den  space,  where  hopes 

Set  i'  the  sun  grow  tall  like  tended  flowers — 

An  Eden,  where  glad  hearts  contented  wait 

Their  dreams'  complete  fulfillings.     Wherefore 
those 

For  ever  done  with  joy  and  hope,  for  them 

No  home  is. 

MISTRESS    VANE:    Faith,    thou    'rt    wrong. 
Home  is  a  shrine 

For  spent  sick  souls  to  creep  to  and  be  healed 

By  miracle  of  love.     Come  thou  with  me. 
CUTHBERT:    There  is  no  succour  for  me  in 
God's  world — 

Nay  even  not  in  thy  matchless  mother-love. 

A  task  is  on  me  of  such  magnitude 

All  my  unequal  flesh  revolts.     Hark!     Hark! 
(He  turns  to  her,  speaking  low  and  fast 
and  with  intense  bitterness.) 

If  there  were  one  more  dear  to  thee  than  life, 

Who,  sleeping,  walked,  thou  vainly  following, 

One  pure  from  sin  as  is  the  driven  snow — 

Who  in  that  blinded  trance — thou  vainly  by — 


sc.  v  The  Nuin  of  Rent  193 

Leapt  to  a  rotting  branch  that  bridged  a  chasm, 
And  stood  so,  sleeping,  dreaming,  smiling,  death 
And  hell  agape  beneath  her  naked  feet- 
One  dearer  than  thy  life — whiter  than  snow — 
What  bitterer  torture  could  thy  heart  endure? 
MISTRESS  VANE:     Sure,  none! 
CUTHBERT:     Sure,    none.     Yet    say,    if   she, 

sleep-locked, 

Stood  smiling  there,  and  thou — awake — aware — 
For    conscience'    sake — for    country's    sake — 

O  God!— 
Must  strike  that  quivering  bough  with  thy  live 

foot, — 

Thyself  must  thrust  it  down  to  fiery  hell 
With  her  upon  it, — her  more  dear  than  life, 
More  pure  than  snow,  more  helpless  than  a 

flower, 

More  innocent  than  ever  babe  that  breathed — 
O  God,  hath  hell  a  horror  beyond  this? 

MISTRESS  VANE  :     I  cannot  follow !    Hath  thy 

speech  import? 
What  craze  is  on  thee? 

CUTHBERT:    Would  to  heedless  Heaven 
It  were  the  illusion  of  a  frenzied  brain ! 
Why  must    I   do   this   thing?     Why    must    it 

be 

The  one  who  loves  her — out  of  all  that  live — 
Now  must  betray  her?     I!     O  Mother — I! 

(He  staggers  away,  and  drops  his  face  on 
his  raised  arms,) 

13 


194  THe  Nxin  of  Rent  ACT  n 

MISTRESS  VANE:  His  love  hath  maddened 
him! 

CUTHBERT  (recovering  himself  and  forcing  him 
self  to  speak  with  calm) :  Nay,  nay,  not 
love, 

But  pity.     Pity  for  such  innocence 
Yoked  with  such  sin. 

MISTRESS  VANE  (incredulously):  Who  sins? 
The  Nun  of  Kent? 

CUTHBERT  (bitterly):  Ay,  this  high  saint. 
She  most  unsaintly  sins. 

MISTRESS  VANE:  What  frantic  words  are 
these!  How  should  Beth  sin? 

CUTHBERT  (rapidly) :    Mother;  those  monks, 

— those  hell-begotten  fiends — 
Plot  treason !     They  are  banded  'gens  the  king, 
By  what  fell  scheme  or  craft  hell  only  sees, 
With  Beth  to  countenance  it  as  God's  will! 

MISTRESS  VANE:  Monstrous!  most  mon 
strous!  Canst  not  save  her,  thou? 

CUTHBERT  (lifting  both  hands  to  Heaven,  with 
a  groan) :  I  can  betray  her.  Ay.  Betray, 
I  can. 

MISTRESS  VANE  (thunderstruck) :  Betray  her? 
—Beth? 

CUTHBERT  (fiercely,  though  with  an  effort  at  self- 

control) :    What  else?     Am  I  a  knave, 
To  leave  these  knaves  unpublished? 

MISTRESS  VANE  :  But — the  maid  ? 

CUTHBERT:    I  must. 


sc.  v  The  Nxin  of  Rent  195 

MISTRESS  VANE :     Thou  canst  not. 
CUTHBERT  (hopelessly):     Must  doth  override 
Life's  cannots. 

MISTRESS  VANE  (wringing  her  hands) :    Son — 

the  doom  is  death ! 
CUTHBERT    (in   agony) :    O  God ! 

(He  steels  himself  to  quiet.) 
Then  dies  she,  too,  with  those  her  fellows. 
MISTRESS  VANE  :  Dies ! 

CUTHBERT  (fiercely) :    Whom  am  I  sworn  to 

serve?     Henry  or  Beth? 
Henry  is  England. 

MISTRESS  VANE  (weeping) :    Beth  is  thine  own 

self. 

CUTHBERT:     To  save  mine  England,  thus  I 
slay  myself. 

(More  gently.) 
Tempt  me  no  more.     Would'st  lure  me  to  the 

wrong 
With  thy  divine  compassion? 

MISTRESS  VANE  :  Were  it  crime 

To  bide  thy  peace,  and  leave  the  event  to  God? — 
Only  to  bide  thy  peace? — Is  it  a  sin 
To  close  the  lips  on  speech  heard  out  of  place 
By  ears  untimely  open?     Leave  it  God. 
Why  must  thou  speak? 

CUTHBERT  (bitterly) :    How  should  I  hold  my 

peace, 

Knowing  the  evil?     Can  I  wink  at  it, 
And  be  as  knew  I  not?     This  God  of  thine 


196  THe  Nun  of  Rent     ACT  n-sc.  v 

Is  slow  of  justice,  else  were  many  a  sin 
Strangled  at  birth,  that  stalks  forth  now  full- 
grown. 
At  need  men  do  God's  work. 

MISTRESS  VANE  (overcome  and  dropping  to  her 

knees) :    O  God !  help !  help ! 
CUTHBERT:     If  prayer  can  find  out  Heaven, 
pray  God  help  Beth. 

(He  turns  away.) 
MISTRESS   VANE:    Thou   goest? — Now? — So 

instant  ? 
CUTHBERT   (gently) :    Mother,  farewell. 

(He  stoops  and  kisses  her.) 
MISTRESS  VANE:    Thou  goest? 
CUTHBERT:     Canst  thou  ask  me  if  I  bide, 
My  king  in  peril,  and  I  English  born? 
I  go.     If  so  be  thou  canst  find  God,  pray ! 

(Exit.) 

(Curtain  falls.) 


ACT  III 

(SCENE  i — A  cell  in  the  Priory.   FATHER  BOCKING 
writing.  Enter  FATHERS  BERING  and  RYSBY. 
The  latter  flings  himself  down  on  the  pallet.) 
RYSBY:     Divinest    rest!     No    greater    good 

hath  Heaven! 

BOOKING    (pushing  back  papers   and  looking 
up     expectantly):      Ye      only?      Father 

Goold ? 

BERING:  He  follows  soon. 

RYSBY    (absently):    How    may    feet    follow 

shortly  so  long  road? 

BOCKING  :  And  Father  Rich — where  bide  they? 
BERING  :  For  the  nonce 

With  Masters. 

BOCKING   (sharply):    Wherefore? 

BERING    (shrugging   his   shoulders):    A   new 

brand  this  morn 
Uncasked. 
BOCKING:    Sots!    They  would  travel  twenty 

leagues 

To  taste  a  wine,  who  care  not  go  a  rod 
To  win  a  mitre! — Masters — what  his  word? 
BERING  :     He  waits  our  summons. 
197 


198  THe  Nun  of  Rent  ACT  in 

DOCKING:  Ere  long  shall  he  hear 

The  trumpet   call.     Archbishop  Warham ? 

BERING:  Sends 

His  holiest  greetings  to  our  sister-saint : 
Commends  her  boldness  in  the  Lord;   approves 
Her  revelation  as  God's  righteous  word, 
And  lends  his  prayers  to  speed  her  on  her  way. 
BOOKING:      His  gold  were  better. — Salisbury 

— what  from  her? 
BERING:     The  Countess  standeth  to  us,  and 

the  same 

The  Marchioness  of  Exeter,  with  all 
Their    chaplains,     households,    servitors,     and 

squires — 
A  goodly  number. 

BOOKING:  And  Sir  George  Carew? 

Lord    Rochester?      Sir    William? — How    with 

these? 

BERING  :    The  same. 
BOOKING:  Good.     Good.     What 

more  of  Rochester? 
BERING:     My  Lord  petitions  Heaven  for  its 

sweet  grace, 
And  meanwhile  dons  his  armour. 

BOOKING:  That's  the  prayer 

Shall  speed   us  farthest.     And  from  Abel    (to 

RYSBY)— Thou, 
Father,  what  message?     (To  BERING.)      Pluck 

that  pillow  out. 
He  sleeps  a'ready. 


sc.  i  THe  Nun  of  Rent  199 

RYSBY    (snatching    at    pillow} :     Hold    there ! 

Peace!     Good  Lord!     (Sinks  back.) 
BOOKING  (sternly):    What  word? 
RYSBY  (sighing) :    Alas,  sweet  sleep !     (Rises.) 

Well,  Father  Goold, 
Ogling  a  lass  or  two  along  the  way, 
And  dining  off  fat  soups  and  goodly  wines 
To  strengthen  his  weak  apostolic  soul, 
Thy  matter  unto  Father  Abel  brought. 

BOCKING:     And  he ? 

RYSBY:     Did   bring   it   to   Queen   Catherine 
Through  the  confessional.     So  holy  road 
Perforce  must  sanctify  it,  Father — eh? 

BOCKING:     Speak  but  thine  errand.     Leave 

thy  fantasies 

To  curl  around  the  slimness  of  thy  prayers. 
RYSBY:     Well  thought.     They  do  lack  some 
what  of  past  grace 

Since  I  to  prattle  treason  tuned  my  tongue. 
BOCKING    (impatiently) :  Father,  I  pray, 

thine  errand!     What  hast  more? 
RYSBY:     Her     Majesty    that     was,     Queen 

Catherine, 

And  Princess  Mary — Majesty  to  be — 
Did  lend  two  royal  ears  most  worshipful 
To  the  blest  message  from  our  holy  Nun. — 

(Muttering):    Faith,  it  may  stain  them 

somewhat ! 

DERING:  By  the  mass, 

The  hour  is  come  to  strike! 


200  TKe  Nxin.  of  Rent  ACT  in 

BOOKING   (exultantly):  The  tide  is  full ! 

RYSBY   (reluctantly):     And  bears  me  on  its 

bosom.     All  too  far 
The  appealing  quiet  of  receding  shores ! 

BOCKING:    Ay,  all  too  late  to  hark  back  to 

the  long 

Relentless  level  of  the  pallid  strand — 
Too  late  to  sink  upon  the  sands  and  sleep. 
High  runs  the  flood  of  my  ambition !     Strong, 
Indubious,  swift,  the  current  of  my  will, 
Compelling  onward  toward  a  consummate  sea! 
RYSBY:     There  must  I  swim — or  sink. 

So  be  it,  then. 
At  worst  an  easy  death. 

BOOKING:  Nay!  nay!  a  prize 

Worth    having    lived    and    died    for.     Power! 
Power ! 

SCENE  n 

(The  cell  of  the  Nun  of  Kent.    Early  morning. 
ELIZABETH,  in  a  boy's  suit  of  mail,  buckling 
on  a  light  sword,  etc.) 
ELIZABETH:    I  wonder  was  she  fairer  than 

I  am, 

This  maid  they  tell  me  of — this  Joan  of  Arc? 
She  was  a  peasant,  Father  Bocking  saith, 
Scarce  more  than  child.  So  I.    And  she  was  good. 
Yet  Heaven  did  make  me  saint,  and  not  so  her, 
Though    she    saved    Spain — or    France?     Ay, 
France  it  was — 


sc.  ii  TKe  Nun  of  Rent 


2OI 


Such  courage  had  she.     She  led  men  to  war. 
Now  that  I  could  not.     I  could  stride  a  steed, 
Or  bear  a  banner,  but  I  fail  of  strength 
To  look  on  blood  and  carnage.     I  turn  sick 
At  thought  of  pain.     How  bore  the  soldier  maid 
The  awful  memory  through  after  nights? 
What  reaped  her  valour?     I  must  ask  anon. 
Perchance,  for  award,  God  let  her  just  be  glad 
In  her  own  way,  alone  with  one  she  loved. 
Joan.     Joan.     A    solemn    name.        But    Beth, 

breathed  low 

And  lingeringly,  as  though  his  lips  were  loath 
To  part  with  so  dear  sound — I  like  it  best. 
Ay,  sweeter  't  is  than  St.  Elizabeth. 
Ah,  Love,  could 'st  see  me  now! 

(She  looks  at  herself  in  delight.) 
I  look  so  tall, 
And  show  so  shapely  in  my  silver  mail ! 

(She  turns  her  helmet  admiringly  in  her  hands.) 
And  this  white  plume  hath  droop  more  maidenly 
Than  sombre  veil  of  Nun.     I  am  that  Joan 
Come  back  to  do  a  nobler  deed  than  hers. 
For  England  is  the  greatest  of  all  lands, 
And  I  save  England,  where  she  saved  but  France. 
I  must  fast  well  to  do  so  holy  work, 
And  make  a  many  prayers  to  compass  it. 
I  must  be  very  saintly.     It  was  sin — 
That  thought  of  Cuthbert.     0  dear  Lord,  give 

grace ! 
I  am  not  fain  to  love  him,  but  the  love 


202  THe  N\in  of  Rent  ACT  in 

Is  older  than  my  sainthood,  and  more  strong. 
I  wonder  did  this  Joan  a  lover  have, 
And  did  to  leave  him  drain  her  heart  of  blood  ? 
Would  not  she,  too,  had  choice  been  granted 

her, 

Have  foregone  all  Fame's  laurels  but  for  this — 
To  make  home  fair  for  him  and  win  his  smile? 
Shame!  Shame!  I  must  not  think  unholy 

thoughts. 

Yet  why  was  love  created  if  't  is  sin? 
Why  given  so  lovely  aspect?     Get  thee  hence, 
Deceiver!  leave  me  passionless  and  calm. 
The  day  of  trial  dawns.     I  must   to  prayer; 
Must  purge  my  heart  of  its  minutest  fault, 
Must  cleanse  each  thought,  and  fit  my  feeble 

soul 
To  meet  the  mighty  moment. 

(She  kneels,  wringing  her  hands.) 
0  dear  Lord, 

I  asked  no  fearsome  honours  of  Thee.  Why 
Didst  set  me  on  these  perilous  heights,  nor 

give 

With  saintship  somewhat  too  of  bravery 
To  bear  its  penalties? — Dear  God,  I  fear! 

SCENE  in 
(ELIZABETH  and  BOOKING.) 

BOOKING  :     Daughter! 

ELIZABETH  (rising  in  frightened  haste) :   Here, 
Father. 


sc.  in  The  N\*n  of  Rent  203 

BOOKING:          Art  thou  yet  equipped? 
ELIZABETH:     All,  save  my  prayers. 
BOOKING:     'Tis    well.     (Points    to    helmet.) 

Cap  thee  and  come. 

Yonder    an    armed    throng    awaits    thee.     See 

Thou  speak  to  them  alone  the  appointed  words. 

(She   tremblingly    puts    on    helmet,    then 

shrinks  back.) 
ELIZABETH:     But    yet    a    moment,    Father. 

I  would  say 
An  Ave. 

BOOKING  :     Thou  may'st  say  thy  fill  the  morn. 
This  day  hast  thou  to  act — not  meditate. 
The  instant  presses. 

ELIZABETH:  Nay,  a  moment  more! 

I  have  not  asked  God's  blessing  on  me. 

BOOKING:  Come. 

Thou  shalt  have  all  the  night  to  pray  in.     Deeds 
Are  day's  best  prayers. 

ELIZABETH    (sinking  to  her  knees):    Father, 

I  am  afraid ! 
BOOKING    (roughly):    Out    on    thee!    What 

hath  come  to  thee?     Afraid? 
Thou — England's  Saviour — is  it  thine  to  quail? 
What  fearest  thou? 

ELIZABETH:  Alas,  I  know  not  what! 

An  agony  of  terror  rends  my  soul. 
Is  it  an  angel  that  would  warn  me  back 
From  tasks  too  great  for  my  endurance?     Oh! 
I  fear!     I  fear! 


204  TKe  N\in  of  Rent  ACT  m 

BOCKING  :          It  is  thy  country's  call ! 

(He  comes  nearer  and  catches  her  by  the 

arm,  pointing  eagerly  outward.} 
It   is  the  voice  of   England — the   great   voice 
Of  a  great  stricken  land — entreating  thee. 
Thou    tremblest?     Ay,    what    soul    stood    not 

aghast 

Fronting  the  spectre  of  King  Henry's  doom! 
Thou    art    afraid?     Yea.     Yea.     So    vast    the 

affront, 

So  slight  the  hand  to  avenge  it,  so  divine 
The  guerdon!    Joan,  too,  thus  a  brief  space 

shrank 

Before  the  glory  of  her  mission.     Thus 
She,  too,  first  feared,  then  dared  to  conquer. 

Know, 

There  is  a  fear  braver  than  courage  is. 
That  fear  be  thine. 

ELIZABETH  :  Father,  thy  speech  lends 

strength. 
Where  wait  those  I  must  hearten?    Bring  me 

yon. 

I  will  breathe  out  thy  spirit  into  theirs — 
Will  flash  thy   soul   upon  them — make  them 

brave ! 
Haste,   Father!     Hasten   while   thy   spell  yet 

holds, 
And  fire  lights  my  tongue ! 

BOOKING:  Come,  Daughter,  come! 

(Exeunt.) 


scs.  iv.  v        TKe  N\in  of  Rent  205 

SCENE  iv 

(A    large    hall   in  the  Priory.     Mendicant  and 

Observant  Friars.     FATHERS  BERING,  RICH, 

GOOLD,    and   RYSBY    moving   among   them 

incitingly.) 

FRIARS:    The   Nun!    The   Nun!    Fetch   us 

the  Nun! 

RYSBY:  Betimes. 

GOOLD:    She  cometh,  comrades. 
BERING  :  Bide  her  holy  will. 

She  waits  upon  the  Lord. 

A  FRIAR:  She  prays  so  long 

Our  swords  rot  in  the  sheath. 

RICH:  Bown  with  King  Hal! 

BERING:     Is  no  King  Hal!    Hath  not  our 

blessed  saint 
Biskinged  him  and  uncrowned  him  in  God's 

name? 

FRIARS:    Ay!    Ay!    We  have  no  king! 
BERING  :  But  have  a  queen ! 

RYSBY:    Or  shall  have,  in  God's  season. 
FRIARS:  Ay!    Our  queen! 

God  save  Queen  Mary! 

SCENE  v 

(The    same.    BOCKING   ushers    in   ELIZABETH. 

Later  soldiers  enter.} 

BERING    (in   a   loud   voice):    Heaven's   Am 
bassadress  ! 


2o6  THe  Nxin  of  Rent  ACT  in 

ALL  :     The  Nun !     The  Nun ! 
BOCKING:  Children,  behold  God's  saint! 

So  found  I  her,  apparelled  as  for  war, 
Lost  in  her  visions. 

BERING  :  Listen !     Mark  her  words ! 

RYSBY:     Sobeit  she  speak  to  you. 
A  FRIAR:  God  bless  our  saint! 

Earth  never  saw  as  fair. 
FRIARS  :  God  bless  our  saint ! 

BERING  :     Give  ear  to  her. 
BOCKING  (to  ELIZABETH):  Speak,  St.  Eliza 
beth! 

Hast  thou  no  word  of  import  for  these  souls 
That  wait  on  Heaven's  high  will? 

ELIZABETH  (coming  forward  modestly) :    Yea, 

God  so  bids, 

Else  held  I  now  my  peace.      What  words  be 
seem 

A  maiden's  lips  in  so  great  hour  as  this? 
But    Heaven    commands.     I    speak   that    God 

ordains. 

GOOLD:     O  hearken,  hearken,  Brothers! 
RICH:  Hark  to  her! 

BERING:     Her  words  are  God's  words! 
ELIZABETH    (solemnly   and   slowly):     In    the 

awful  night 
God  spoke,  with  words  that  struck  across  the 

dark 

Like  thunderous  lightning,  blasting  where  they 
fell, 


SC.  V 


THe  Nxin  of  Rent  207 


Stripping   proud    Sin   of   its   concealing   grace, 
And  laying  it  all  hideous  and  bare 
Along  the  land— a  scar  to  fright  the  world. 
God  spoke.     My  chastened  soul  stood  still  to 

hear, 
And  quailed  in  hearing. 

BOOKING:  Who  should  hear  God  speak, 

Nor  falter?     Oh,  thou  highest,  nearest,  best, 
Avow  thy  mission.     Speak  to  us  deaf-mutes, 
Who  hear  alone  through  thee. 

FRIARS  (kneeling):  Declare  it  us! 

Show  us  God's  will! 

RYSBY    (remorsefully):    Have    mercy    Thou, 
good  Lord ! 

(ELIZABETH  suddenly  draws  her  sword  and 
raises  it  high  above  her  head,  both  arms 
lifted.) 
ELIZABETH:    God's  will  is  war!    War  agens 

sin! 

BOOKING  (hastily  prompting  her):  The  king! 
ELIZABETH    (excitedly):    Ay!      War!      War! 
War  'gens  sin  and  'gens  the  king! 
(As  all  are  watching  ELIZABETH,  soldiers 

noiselessly  enter  the  hall  from  rear.) 
BERING:    War  'gens  King  Henry! 
FRIARS  :  Henry  is  king  no  more. 

BOOKING:    Long  live  Queen  Mary! 
FRIARS  (more  and  more  wildly) :  Mary! 

Mary!     Queen! 
We  have  no  king,  and  Mary  is  our  queen! 


208  THe  Nvin  of  Rent  ACT  in 

BERING  (low  to  ELIZABETH)  :  Continue.     Fair 

begun ! 

RICH  (low  to  ELIZABETH):    Speak!     Speak! 
ELIZABETH     (bewildered):  What  more? 

I  have  forgot. 

BOCKING    (aloud,    prompting   her):     Through 

thee  the  Spirit  speaks. 

ELIZABETH  (remembering):  Oh,  hark!  Through 
me  God's  spirit  speaks!     Hark!     Hark! 
I  am  the  unworthy  mouthpiece  of  the  Lord, 
But  His  these  words  I  utter !     Unto  you 
His  holy  message!     Arm!     And  in  His  name 
Dethrone  that  recreant  monarch,  falsely  king, 
With    her    whose    love    unkings    him!     Arms! 
To  arms ! 

(She  rushes  with  lifted  sword  into  the  crowd, 
then  stops  suddenly  and  turns  to 
BOOKING,  pointing  to  the  soldiers,  who 
during  the  above  have  gathered  increas 
ingly  in  the  hall.) 
See,  Father,  who  are  these? 

BOOKING    (with    a    terrible    cry):    Betrayed! 
Betrayed ! 
(Great  commotion.     More  and  more  troops 

file  in  till  they  fill  the  hall.) 
OFFICIAL    (calling   in    loud   voice    above   the 
tumult):       In      names      of      Cranmer, 
Cromwell,  Latimer, 

The  persons  of  these  traitors  now  here  found 
In  very  act  of  treason,  I  arrest — 


sc.  v  TKe  N\*n  of  Rent  209 

Elizabeth,  the  so-styled  Nun  of  Kent, 
With  Booking,  Bering,  Rysby,  Rich,  and  Goold. 
(A  panic  ensues.     The  friars  flee  on  all 
sides  while  the  guards  seize  and  bind 
the  five  monks  in  spite  of  violent  re 
sistance.     ELIZABETH    stands   bewil 
dered.    RYSBY  turns   to   her   as  the 
guards  approach.) 

RYSBY:     Child!     Child!     fly!     save   thyself! 

E'LiZAB'ET'H.(dropping  her  sword  and  clasping  her 

hands  together) :  What  mean  these  cries — ? 

This  frightful  rout — ?      God  save  us,  is  this 

war? 

RYSBY  :     Fly,  fly,  poor  innocent ! 
GUARD  (seizing  her) :  Or  innocent 

Or  guilty,  she  must  hence  to  London. 

ELIZABETH:  Off! 

Loose  me!     How  dar'st  thou  touch  me! 

GUARD   (tightening  his  hold) :    By  the  rood, 
But  yesterday  I  had  not  dared  it ! 
ELIZABETH  (to  BOOKING,  who  stands  white  and 
still,  paralysed  with  the  shock  of  the  sudden 
defeat):     Help! 

O  Father,  help  me!     Bid  them  let  me  go ! 
They  know  me  not.     Tell  thou  them  who  I  am. 
(BOCKING  pays  no  heed  and  is  borne  away 

unresisting) . 

GUARD  (picking  up  her  sword  contemptuously) : 
Ay,  ay,  we  know  thee.      Thou  who  yestere'en 
Wert  holiest  saint,  a  traitor  art  the  morn ! 
14 


2io  TKe  Nxin  of  Kent  ACT  m 

ELIZABETH:    That   I   was    yestere'en    I   am 

this  hour — 
A  saint — God's  saint.     Take  your  rude  hands 

away 

Ere  Heaven  avenge  the  insult!     Let  me  free, 
Or  I  cry  out  to  God  to  free  me! — God! 
God!     Hear  me!     Help  me!     Dear  God,  save 

thy  saint ! 
God — God — save — 

(She  is  overpowered  and  borne  off.) 
RYSBY:  Dies  ira3.     All  is  done. 

God  hath  avenged  Himself. 

GUARDS  :  To  London !     Hence ! 

(Curtain  falls.} 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  i — (London.  The  Star  Chamber.  CRAN- 
MER,  LATIMER,  and  CROMWELL.  THE  NUN, 
FATHERS  BOOKING,  BERING,  RYSBY,  RICH, 
and  GOOLD  arraigned  before  them.  Guards 
in  the  background.) 
CROMWELL:  What  boots  it  further  parley 

with  these  knaves? 

Deeds  prove  themselves,  nor  need  expositors. 
CRANMER:    Truth,    truth,    good    Cromwell. 

Yet  so  foul  a  blot 

Should  not  unevidenced  besmirch  these  souls. 
Were  it  but  false! 

LATIMER:     Might  all  things  false  prove  true! 
Thou,     Booking,    speak.     Art    thou    unjustly 

judged? 
CRANMER:    Speak  thou  for  all.     With  these 

thou  standest  here 

Adjudged  a  traitor;  with  these  art  condemned. 
An  aught  thou  canst  advance  may  temper  justice 
To  some  poor  show  of  mercy,  speak. 

BOCKING:  My  Lords, 

I  speak  nor  for  these  others  nor  myself. 
I  own  no  kinship  with  these  coward  souls 

211 


212  TKe  Nvin  of  Rent  ACT  iv 

That  have  confest  their  guilt  for  fear  of  it, 
And  myself  stands  acquitted  to  myself. 

CRANMER:     God  judge  thee,  Friend,  as  lightly ! 

BERING   (furiously  to  DOCKING):    Now,    by 

God, 

Thy  pride,  my  fellow,  needs  a  wrench  or  two, 
Ere  thy  neck  seemly  fit  the  traitor's  block ! 
Braver  than  shameful  silence  are  stout  words, 
And  we,  by  bold  admission  of  our  sin, 
Less  cowards  than  thyself.  (To  Cranmer.) 

Why  then,  my  Lord, 
An  it  do  please  thee,  we  be  traitors  all, 
Yet  till  thine  axe  untongue  me,  I  '11  maintain 
Ours  was  a  mighty  scheme,  and  that  it  failed, 
Its  chief est  fault. 

RICH  (to  BOCKING)  :    Curse  thee,  I  say !  'T  was 

thou 
Brought  us  to  this! 

GOOLD:    Ay,  curse  him!     But  for  him 
The  safety  of  the  cloister  held  us  still. 
'T  was  his  ambition  wrecked  us,  choosing  out 
Our  souls  as  steps  to  climb  on.     Living — dead — 
I  curse  him ! 

RYSBY  :  Brother,  peace !  How  may  thy  curse 
Harm  him  or  better  thee?  We  trod  one  way, 
Tempter  and  tempted.  One  mud  soils  the  foot 
Of  him  who  beckons  and  of  who  pursues. 
We  all  have  sinned,  nor  he  there  more  than  all. 
He  sinned  for  strength,  where  we  for  weakness 
fell 


sc.  i  The  Nun  of  Rent 


213 


That    truckled    to    his    will.       Our    doom    is 

just. 

ELIZABETH    (who   has   listened   in   increasing 
amazement):          Just?     Heavens!     Who 
spoke?     What  crime  is  this  of  ours? 
What  sin  lies  on  our  souls?     Who  dares  con 
demn — 

Who  dares  to  stay  us  on  our  way? — My  Lords, 
Sure  some  strange  error  hath  you.     Ye  know  not 
Our  persons.     I  am  St.  Elizabeth, 
The  Nun  of  Kent,  chosen  of  Heaven's  good 

grace 

To  free  this  stricken  land  from  Henry's  rule 
And  crown  our  Mary  queen ; — and  me,  ye  charge, 
And  these  my  followers,  with  some  grave  sin 
Whereof  we  do  reck  nothing.     Let  us  go, 
My  Lords.     Command  the  doors  be  opened  us. 
The  good  cause  suffers  while  ye  hold  us  here. 
RYSBY  (remonstrating) :     My  little  lass !     My 

little  lass! 

CROMWELL:  Her  words 

Condemn  herself. 

CRANMER   (pityingly):    So  fair  fanatic!    And 
So  innocently  guilty  before  Heaven! 

LATIMER:     May  that  her  innocence  right  her 

poor  soul 
I'  the  Judgment  hour.     Here  dies  she  with  the 

rest. 

ELIZABETH:     I    die?     I    die?     Good  God!— 
and  these? — These  too? 


214  The  N\in  of  Rent 


ACT  IV 


Wherefore    our   death? — Oh,    Father    Booking, 

speak ! 

What  crime  illusory  have  these  confest? 
Why  art  thou  silent?     Help  me  to  fit  words. 
Dear  Father,  speak!     How  can  I  show  to  these 
The  sacrilege  they  purpose?     Of  myself, 
How  can  I  frame  rebuke? 

BERING:  Peace,  chattering  fool! 

He  will  not  heed  thee  more. 

ELIZABETH  :  This— this  to  me ! 

How  dar'st  thou  thus  address  me?     Whence 

so   swift 

This  graceless  speech,  this  look  contemptuous? 
Wherefore    forgot    the    honour   due    me?     (To 

BOCKING.)     Thou! 
Speak  for  me  this  once  more.     Tell  these  great 

Lords — 

These  monks  so  metamorphosed — who  I  am! 
Thy  word  they  must  believe! 

BOCKING  (turning  upon  her):    Truce  to  thy 

cries, 

Thou  miserable  wench!     No  saint  art  thou, 
Thou  pride-stuffed  puppet,  vaunting  thy  glass 

gems, 

But  a  vain  woman,  tricked  to  fit  the  r61e — 
A  poor  weak  lass, — an  empty,  brainless  thing 
I  chose  among  all  for  thy  foolishness, 
Thine  ignorance,  thy  vainest  vanity, 
To  fool  this  England  with.     And  thee — and  thee 
I  passed  off  on  thy  fellows  as  a  saint ! 


sc.  i  The  Nxin  of  Kent  215 

ELIZABETH:     Great  God,  are  these  ears  mine 

that  hear? — this  I 
Of  whom  he  speaks?     Father— my  Lord— my 

Lord — 
Dear  Father  Rysby !     (She  appeals  from  one  to 

the  other.)     Wherefore  turn  away? 
Why   wilt   not    look   at    me?— thou,    Father— 

thou — 

(A  pause.     All  move  back  from  her.     She 

recoils  in  sudden  conviction.) 
Nay,  is  it  so?     Am  I  that  thing  he  said? — 
That  awful  thing? — a  lie  to  mine  own  self? 
A  falsehood,  flung  out  living  on  the  world 
And   dressed    in    saintship? — 0    my   God,   my 

God, 

What  am  I?     Who  this  I? — I  am  not  I? — . 
I  am  some  monster,  stranger  to  myself 
Than    to    the    world    that    spurns    me? — God 

forgive ! 

My  brain  reels.     (She  staggers.) 
CRANMER:  Help  there!    Look!    The 

maiden  falls. 
ELIZABETH  (repulsing  them} :    Touch  me  not ! 

Take  your  cruel  hands  away! 
Can  ye  give  back  the  self  he  robbed  me  of? 
God   judge    betwixt    us   twain!     Mine   ignor 
ance, 

My  folly,  and  my  vainest  vanity, 
Be  they  confest ;  but  how  then  has  he  sinned 
Who  thus  undid  me!     God  betwixt  us  judge! 


216  The  Nxin  of  Rent 


ACT  IV 


RYSBY  (remorsefully) :     God  judge  betwixt  us. 

Yea,  may  God  so  do. 
CROMWELL  (to  guards) :    Bear  hence. 

(The  guards  lead  away  the  prisoners.) 
RICH    (to   BOOKING):  Our  blood  be  on  thy 

head! 

GOOLD  :         Curse  him ! 
BOOKING:    The  stakes  are  lost.      But  thus 

much  still  is  mine. 
I  palmed  thee  on  thy  fellows  for  a  saint ! 
ELIZABETH  (as  BOOKING  is  led  off) :  Nay,  hold ! 

Hold  only  till  I  curse  him,  too, 
Him  I  accounted  as  a  second  God 
And    followed    on  my    knees!     Hold,    for    my 

curse ! 

CRANMER  :    Hush — hush ! 
ELIZABETH   (passionately):    Hush?     Nay! 

Who  prayed  him  he  abstain 
When   he  first  thought   to  kill  my  soul  with 

lies? 

Who  had  compassion  on  my  ignorance, 
And  cried  him  mercy  for  my  foolishness? 
None.     None.     Earth  hath  no  pity  for  the  weak. 
Wiser  who  sins,  than  dares  be  sinned  agens! 
LATIMER  (to  guards) :    Bring  her  away.     She 

waxeth  over  loud. 
ELIZABETH     (resisting):    Stand    off!    Where 

bring  ye  me?     The  crime  I  did 
Was  done  myself,  none  else.     Oh,  pity!  spare! 
Let  me  go  free!     Bring  me  to  no  foul  gaol! 


sc.  i  THe  N\in  of  Ii.ent  217 

Am  I  not  shamed  enough?     Let  me  go  hence! 
Let  me  go  find  one  tender  heart  to  die  on — 
One  tender  arm  to  shield  me  from  disgrace ! 
LATIMER:     The  law  thou  hast  transgressed 

adjudges  thee 
The  traitor's  doom. 

CRANMER:  Alas!    A  very  child! 

ELIZABETH:     Traitor?     I?     I?     Now  by  our 

stainless  God, 

My  soul  is  lily-pure  of  ill  intent ! 
How  have  I  sinned?     How  should  I  know  the 

law? 

For  me  was  but  one  law — obedience — 
And  that  I  followed  straight ly. 

LATIMER :  To  thy  death. 

Bear  the  lass  hence. 

ELIZABETH  (flinging  herself  upon  the  floor  at 

his  feet}:     Oh,  once  more,  pity!     Hear! 
Not  life  I  ask.     Life  were  not  worth  the  prayer. 
But  give  me  only  to  see  Cuthbert  once, 
To  clear  my  soul  before  him  ere  I  die ! 
We  twain  were  lovers  in  the  old  dear  days — 
The   sweet   glad   days.     He    will   not   hold   at 

fault 
Though  the  whole  world  contemn  me.     He  will 

know 

I  sinned  not  in  my  soul  albeit  I  die. 
Let  me  but  send  for  Cuthbert !     For  one  hour — 
One  moment — speak  him ! 

CROMWELL:     Cuthbert?     Nay!     Not  him! 


2i8  The  Nxin  of  Rent  ACT  iv 

CRANMER:     Poor  maid! 

LATIMER  (softened] :     There — take  thy  hands 

from  round  my  feet. 
I  may  not  grant  thee  this. 

ELIZABETH  (despairingly} :  Oh,  dear  my  Lords, 
Have  mercy  on  me!  Through  earth's  length 

and  breadth 

There  's  never  one  that  loves  me  save  but  him. 
Grant  me  my  dying  prayer!  I  have  no  gold; 
How  shall  I  bribe  ye?  Have  ye  hearts  of 

stone? 

See.     I  will  lay  this  hand  upon  the  block, 
That  ye  may  cleave  it,  living,  from  mine  arm — 
This,  too  (she  extends  both  arms),  so  you  but  only 

bring  him  me 
This  single  once  before  I  come  to  die ! 

LATIMER:     Rude  truths  are  wholesomer  than 

kind  deceits. 
Elizabeth,  art  strong  to  suffer? 

ELIZABETH  (joyfully,  baring  her  arms) :  Yea ! 
Oh,  strike,  strike  quickly!  I  do  need  no  hands 
To  hold  his  heart! 

LATIMER:  Elizabeth,  't  was  he 

Denounced  thee,  with  thy  followers. 

ELIZABETH  (dazed) :  'T  was  he ? 

LATIMER:    Ay;   Cuthbert. 
ELIZABETH    (after  a  pause,   putting   hand  to 
forehead):  Cuthbert?— Cuthbert?— It  was 
he 
Denounced  me? — For  what  crime? 


sc.  i  The  Nun  of  Rent  219 

LATIMER:  High  treason. 

ELIZABETH   (after  still  longer  pause}:    Could 
He  know  my  fate? 

LATIMER:     He  knew  the  doom  was  death. 
ELIZABETH  (wildly,  to  the  guards,  throwing  up 
her  arms) :     Enough.    Enough.    Bear  me 
away.     I   am 
Already  judged.     I  have  already  died. 

[The  guards  carry  her  off. 

SCENE  n 

(CRANMER,  LATIMER,  and  CROMWELL.  Guards. 
There  is  a  struggle  at  one  of  the  doors,  and 
CUTHBERT,  followed  by  his  mother,  forces  his 
way  in.) 

CUTHBERT:     My  Lords! 
MISTRESS    VANE:     O    gracious  Lords,  pray 

heed  him  not ! 
He  is  beside  himself. 

LATIMER  (to  the  other  Lords) :    Let  us  begone. 
Our  business  is  done. 

CUTHBERT:  A  hearing!     Pray! 

CRANMER:    Ay,  when  the  dead  speak. 
CUTHBERT:  Hear  me! 

LATIMER:  Good  my  Lords, 

Will  it  please  you  go? 

CUTHBERT    (desperately,    placing    himself  in 
their  way):     My  Lords,  if  you  be  good, 
It  shall  please  you  stay  and  hearken.     I  am  come 
To  yield  me  up  to  justice,  in  the  stead 


220  THe  Nxin  of  Rent  ACT  iv 

Of  one  Elizabeth,  the  Nun  of  Kent, 
Whom  ye  here  hold  for  treason. 

MISTRESS  VANE   (wringing  her  hands):    He 

is  mad ! 
I  do  entreat  you,  hear  him  not ! 

LATIMER  (coldly) :  The  law 

Demands  Elizabeth  of  Kent — not  thee. 

CUTHBERT  :     Guilty  of  over  loyalty  am  I 
As  she  of  too  great  innocence.     Take  me, 
And  set  her  free.     More  traitor  I  to  her 
Than  e'er  she  to  the  king. 

MISTRESS    VANE:    My  Lords — my  Lords — 
He  is  mine  only  son ! 

LATIMER:  We  do  waste  breath. 

Justice  retains  its  own. 

CUTHBERT  :  Hold  me  for  her — 

Were  not  that  justice?  She  is  innocent 
Of  will.  Let  me  atone  her  guilty  deed. 
So  is  the  law  avenged,  and  she  yet  lives! 

CRANMER:     My   son,  thy    prayers   are  idle. 
(To  the  others.)     Let  us  hence. 

CUTHBERT:     My  Lords,  I  ask  but  justice — 

naught  beside. 

I  sue  you  for  no  favour.     Take  my  life 
In  ransom  for  her  life.     The  sin  she  sinned 
Unwittingly,  let  my  death  expiate 
In  what  extremity  of  torturous  shame 
Men  can  devise.     Let  her  but  live! 

CROMWELL:  Peace.     Peace. 

CUTHBERT:     Hear  me! 


sc.  in  TKe  Nvin  of  Rent  221 

LATIMER:     No    more.     Her    sentence    hath 

been   read. 

Elizabeth,  the  Nun  of  Kent,  accused 
Of  treason,  is  found  guilty  and  condemned. 

(Exeunt  Lords.) 

CRANMER  (passing  out) :     May    Heaven    now 
comfort  thee,  and  her. 

(Exit.) 

SCENE  in 

(CUTHBERT  and  MISTRESS  VANE.) 

CUTHBERT:  She  dies! 

She  dies!     O  justice,  what  abhorrent  crime 
Of  mercilessness  in  thy  name  condoned! 
Blind,  blind  thy  judgments!     False  thy  scales 

that  weigh 

Bare  deeds,  unbalanced  by  the  soul's  intent! 
She  dies  for  innocency — dies  for  lack 
Of  knowing  it  was  guilt  that  touched  her — dies 
For  others'  sin,  although  to  me  denied 
The  right  to  die  for  hers ! 

MISTRESS  VANE  :          Would  God  thou  hadst 
But  closed  thy  lips! — but  held  thy  peace! 

CUTHBERT   (fiercely):  Be  still! 

Wake  not  the  struggle  in  my  maddened  soul! 
'Twixt  her  and  honour  was  there  choice?     Ah, 
God! 

MISTRESS  VANE  (slowly,  after  a  pause) :  Cuth- 
bert,  she  shall  not  die! 

CUTHBERT:  Not  die? 


222  The  Nvin  of  Rent 


ACT  IV 


MISTRESS  VANE  (putting  finger  to  lips): 

Speak  soft ! 
CUTHBERT     (coming    closer):     Speak    quick! 

What  hath  thy  woman- wit  devised? 
Canst  save  her?     Oh,  speak  quick!    Show  thou 

it  me. 

Then  shall  I  know  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven ! 
MISTRESS  VANE:    Shame  thee,  blasphemer! 

Is  a  maiden  worth 
Thy  faith  in  God?     Hark.     This  my  thought— 

to  gain 

Speech  with  the  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 
CUTHBERT:     Sir    Frederick?     How    may    he 

help  our  strait? 
MISTRESS  VANE  :     Long  days  ago  thy  father — 

blest  his  soul! — 

Did  him  brave  service  in  a  heavy  hour 
Should  now  bear  timely  fruit,  if  gratitude 
Be  not  a  seedless  flower  in  his  breast. 
I  will  but  beg  our  access  to  her  room. 
So  small  a  mercy  should  not  irk  him  grant; — 
Nay  rather,  it  should  please  him  that  he  come 
So  light  off  in  our  weighing  of  accounts. 
CUTHBERT:    And  how  bring  Beth  away? 
MISTRESS  VANE:  Her  person  is 

One  height  with  mine.     If  in  the  dusk  thou 

come — 

I  being  within  and  way  made  clear  for  thee — 
Who,  in  the  uncertain  light,  shall  see  to  mark 
If  she  or  I,  wearing  this  cloak  of  mine 


SC.  Ill 


THe  Nxin  of  Rent  223 


With  hood  drawn  close,  return  again  with  thee? 
And  for  the  rest— I  '11  e'en  contrive  a  way 
To  follow. 

CUTHBERT  (falling  on  his  knees):     Now,  our 

God  be  gracious!     Look! 

Thy  thought   is   life!     Mother,   I   pray   again! 
(Curtain  falls.) 


ACT  V 

(SCENE  i — A  prison  cell.  ELIZABETH,  in  peasant's 
dress,  seated  with  folded  hands  and  bent  head, 
oblivious  of  surroundings.  A  ray  of  the  set 
ting  sun,  slanting  through  one  of  the  barred 
windows,  is  creeping  toward  her  along  the 
floor.  A  young  woman,  the  prison  attendant, 
is  seated  at  some  distance  at  another  window, 
busy  with  needlework  and  humming  softly  to 
herself.  The  approaching  ray  at  last  catches 
ELIZABETH'S  eye.) 
ELIZABETH:  O  lovely  light!  Dost  thou  not 

fear  to  soil 

So  fair  a  foot,  treading  a  prison  floor? 
Here  all  is  sin  and  dolour ;  yet  thou  dar'st, 
Thou  holy  thing,  to  chase  the  dark  away? 
Thou  dear  light,  linger!     Must  thou  soon  be 

gone? 

This  day  is  all  I  have.     To-night  I  die. 
Make    my    time    longer,    thou    compassionate 

light! 

Borrow  a  moment  from  the  night  that  comes, 
To  add  it  to  this  day  that  is  my  all. 
Keep  back  night's  shadows.    Lay  thy  silver  hand 
224 


sc.  ii  The  N\jn  of  Hent  225 

Across  the  stars,  and  bar  them  from  their  places. 
(Rises  and  goes  to  the  window.) 
Stand  off,  thou  horrid  night!     Along  the  west 
The  scarlet  palpitates  for  fear  of  thee. 
The  giant  clouds,  marshalled  as  sentinels 
Around  day's  open  gates,  have  sighted  thee 
And  broken  from    their    post,   and   flee    dis 
mayed. 

The  whole  earth  is  aghast  at  thee,  0  night. 
And  I?     Can  I  endure  thee?     I  have  sinned, 
And  sin  dreads  shadows.     And  to-night  I  die, 
And  death  is  uttermost  of  darkness.     Night, 
Or  sin,  or  death — which  is  most  terrible? 

(She  moves  slowly  away  from  the  window, 

and  stands  awhile  with  clasped  hands; 

then  reseats  herself,  and  falls  again  into 

a  deep  revery.) 

SCENE  n 

(The  same.  Enter  MISTRESS  VANE,  closely  cloaked. 

ATTENDANT  springs  up.) 
ATTENDANT:    Who  art  thou? — No  one  enters 

here. 
MISTRESS  VANE  (beckoning  her  aside): 

Whist!     Whist! 

Thy  gallant  waits  without  the  postern  door. 
ATTENDANT:     My  Robin?    Hola! 

(She  starts  eagerly  off,  then  bethinks  her 
self  and  returns.) 
is 


226  TKe  N\in  of  lient  ACT  v 

Name  thee.     Who  art  thou? 
Who  charged  thee  with  thine  errand? 

MISTRESS  VANE  (showing  written  paper) : 

Go  in  peace. 
See.     This  my  passport;    this   (giving  riband) 

thy  Robin's  sign. 

ATTENDANT  (glancing  at  paper):    The  Lord 

Lieutenant's  seal!     'T  is  well.— Hi!  Hi! 

The   broidered   band!     (Going,   pauses   again.) 

How  pass  the  Keeper? 

MISTRESS  VANE:  Pish! 

He  '11  stay  thee  not.  A  new-brewed  ale  he  had 
In  gift  to  sup  on.  Thou  'It  come  safely  through. 
Leave  thou  the  latch  unset,  that  my  son  mount 
To  fetch  me  forth.  Anon,  when  we  twain  pass, 
My  son  and  I,  returning,  slip  within, 
And  so  take  up  thy  task  again 

ATTENDANT:  Ay.    Ay. 

Wilt  guard  her  close? 

MISTRESS  VANE:    Closer    than    thou.     Fear 

naught. 

May'st  bide  thy  pleasure. 
ATTENDANT  (joyously) :    Look  thou  weary  not ! 

(Exit.) 

SCENE  in 

(ELIZABETH  and  MISTRESS  VANE.) 
MISTRESS    VANE     (muttering):    Thy    Robin 
tend  thee  well.     The  time  is  ours! 

(Approaches  the  window.) 


sc.  in  THe  Nun  of  Rent  227 

Will  yon  slow  sun  ne'er  make  an  end  of  day? 

(She  seats  herself  far  off  from  ELIZABETH 

by    the    window,    whence    she    keeps 

anxious  watch.     ELIZABETH,  lost  in 

revery,  has  paid  no  heed  to  the  dialogue, 

nor  to  the  change  of  companion.) 

ELIZABETH    (rousing    after    a    pause) :    Is  't 

night? 
MISTRESS   VANE  (keeping  her  face  averted): 

'T  is  nigh  on  vespers. 

ELIZABETH  :  Tell  thy  ber  ds. 

It  may  be  God  will  hear  thee  for  me  too. 
I  am  afraid  to  pray.     I  wronged  God  so 
I  fear  the  angels  would  rise  up  in  wrath 
And  beat  my  prayers  back,  did  I  kneel  to  pray. 
MISTRESS    VANE:    Nay,    God    hears    every 

prayer.     (Aside.)     The  pink  pales  fast. 
The  night  adjusts  her  robes. 

ELIZABETH:  Nay,  not  all  prayers, 

Else  were  there  many  we  would  fain  unpray. 
And  there  was  one — Oh,  years  agone  it  was — 
That  He  did  never  hear.     Dear  Lord,  it  ran, 
Make  us  twain  one,  and  make  Beth  very  good. 
Yet  I,  who  prayed  for  goodness,  alas!     I 
Have  sinned  beyond  all  others.     I,  who  prayed 
I  might  be  Cuthbert's  wife,  by  Cuthbert's  self 
Am  given  to  death.     Oh,  that  was  sorry  prayer 
That   had   such   sorry   answer.     And   to-night 
I  pray  no  more,  my  prayers  go  so  awry; 
And  yet  my  soul  is  heavy  with  desires 


228  THe  N\in  of  Rent  ACT  v 

That  crowd  for  utterance.  Pray  thou  for  me. 
Pray  fast;  pray  long;  for  I  am  nigh  to  death, 
And  God  is  very  just. 

MISTRESS  VANE:          God  is  all  love. 

(Aside): 
Now  comes  the  slow-stepped  dusk  on  languid 

feet! 
ELIZABETH  :    I  do  need  mercy.    I  have  sinned 

a  sin 

Exceeding  any  other.     Hast  thou  heard? 
I  was  so  ignorant,  so  monstrous  vain, 
I  did  believe  them  when  they  called  me  saint. 
Yea.    Yea.    So  vain.    As  were /shaped  thereto! 
It  shames  me  to  remember.     Yea,  so  vain, 
I  thought  myself  elect  of  God  to  speak 
His   wrath   against   the   king.     I   might   have 

known 
That  had  God  spoken,  the  whole  world  had 

heard — 

Not  only  we  in  Canterbury  town. 
Yea,  I  have  sinned;    have  sinned;    and  what 

hell  holds 

Deeper  damnation  than  sin's  consciousness? 
MISTRESS    VANE:    Thy    thoughts    turn    too 

far  inward.     Woo  them  back 
To  healthier  daylight. 

ELIZABETH  :  Who  is  near  to  death 

Consorts  with  shadows,  and  explores  the  dark 
To  try  if  his  poor  faith  have  power  to  pierce 
To  a  beyond.     What  recks  he  more  of  sun, 


SC.  Ill 


TKe  N\in  of  Rent  229 


Or  midday  skies,  or  small  sweet  earthly  things, 
On    whose    stunned    sense,    vast,    vague,    and 

terrible, 

Beat  the  far  soundings  of  eternity, 
Wave  after  wave? 

MISTRESS    VANE    (to    herself):    Yon    shines 

night's  signet  star, 
Sealing  day  dead! 

ELIZABETH:    Oh,  tell  me,  what  is  death? 
Is  it  all  darkness,  silence,  and  a  pang? 
The  dark  hath  ever  led  my  soul  in  clogs, 
And  from  a  child  I  am  afraid  of  pain. 
A  finger's  touch  jars  every  quickening  nerve. 
And  silence — Ah,  the  weirdest  't  is  of  all. 
One  hears  the  heart  beat  in  it  like  a  voice 
Entombed,  struggling  to  make  its  terrors  reach 
Out  to  the  living. 

MISTRESS  VANE  (at  the  window):    Fast  the 

dear  night  drops 

Her  tender  shadows !     Fast  the  world  grows  dim ! 
ELIZABETH:    Oh,    tell    me,   what    is    death? 

I  am  afraid. 

My  warm  young  flesh  shudders  at  thought  of  it. 
How  can  I  die? — how  can  I  cease  to  be? 
Although  all  others  die,   can   I? — Nay,   death 
Comes  only  to  the  weary  or  the  old, 
Not  to  the  young! — not  to  the  bounding  veins, 
Instinct  with  life! — oh,  not  to  me,  to  me! 

MISTRESS  VANE   (absently):    All  men  needs 

die  in  time. 


230  THe  Nvin  of  K.ent  ACT  v 

ELIZABETH     (quickly,    turning    toward    her) : 

Yea,  yea,  in  time. 

But  I  die  out  of  time,  before  my  heart 
Hath  ripened  to  its  possibilities. 
I  am  but  a  beginning — but  a  sketch 
Blurred  in   designing — but   a  might-have-been 
Spoiled  for  eternity.     I  die  with  all 
My  future  like  a  dead  bud  in  my  hand. 
To  what  good  have  I  lived?     This  tiny  span 
Of  years,  what  hath  it  brought  me?     Alas,  what ! 
To  be  thrust  forth,  unshriven  and  undone, 
From  sin,  because  of  sin,  and  in  my  sin, 
To  meet  a  sinless  God! 

MISTRESS    VANE    (springing    up    excitedly) : 

Hark!    Hark!    At  last 
He  comes! 
ELIZABETH  (alarmed):    Who  seeks  me  here? 

Who  climbs  my  stair? 
Prithee,  bar  close  the  door! 

MISTRESS  VANE:  Hast  thou  forgot 

So  soon  his  step? — so  soon  forgotten  me? 

(She  throws  off  the  concealing  cloak  and 

hood.) 

ELIZABETH  (recognising  her) :    Thou,  Mistress 
Vane!     Thou  here!  and  Cuthbert— Ah! 
Let  him  not  in ! 

MISTRESS  VANE  (moving  toward  door) :    Cuth 
bert! 

ELIZABETH    (detaining   her):     Nay.        Never 
more. 


scs.  iv,  v         TKe  N\in  of  Rent  231 

Who  was  my  lover  is  become  my  judge. 
My  sin  stands,  flame-like,  'twixt  my  heart  and  his. 
MISTRESS  VANE  (calling) :    Cuthbert !     Come 
quickly!  quickly! 

SCENE  iv 

(The  same.  CUTHBERT  hurries  in.  ELIZABETH 
gives  a  low  heartbroken  cry.  They  stand 
looking  at  each  other.) 

MISTRESS  VANE:  Haste!    Oh,  haste! 

A  life  hangs  in  the  balance  of  this  hour! 
Follow  ye  me.     I  go  to  watch  the  way. 

(Exit.) 
SCENE  v 

(ELIZABETH  and  CUTHBERT.     He  advances,  beck 
oning  with  outstretched  arms.) 
CUTHBERT:    Come!    Come! 
ELIZABETH    (retreating):     Nay,    whither? 
CUTHBERT  (joyously) :   Forth  with  me— to  life ! 
ELIZABETH    (gravely):     I   may   but   forth   to 

death. 

CUTHBERT:  Life  hath  tricked  death! 

Life  claims  thee!     Come,  oh,  come!     Veil  thee 
in  this. 
(He  draws  her  to  him  and  folds  MISTRESS 

VANE'S  cloak  about  her.) 
Love  calls,  and  thou  art  free! 

ELIZABETH  (throwing  off  cloak) :  How  am  I  free, 
Whom  sin  holds  fettered? 


232  TKe  Nun  of  Rent  ACT  v 

CUTHBERT  (trying  to  force  her  forward) :  0  my 

God!  the  hour 
Wanes   fast,   each  beat  a  drop  of  thy  heart's 

blood! 
ELIZABETH  (holding  back):    Would  it  might 

bleed  to  death  here  'neath  thine  arm. 
So  were  it  sweet  to  die. 

CUTHBERT:  So  sweeter  life, 

We  two  aye  soul  to  soul,  and  free!     Oh,  haste! 
Delay  is  death! 

ELIZABETH  :       I  scarce  may  credit  it. 
Am  I  yet  dear  to  thee — I  who  so  sinned? 

CUTHBERT:     Dearer  than  all  things  earthly 

or  divine. 
Why  wilt  thou  torture  me?     Come  with  me! 

Come! 
ELIZABETH:    Hast  thou  forgot  thou  gavest 

me  to  die? — 

Forgot  I  here  await  sin's  recompense? 
CUTHBERT:     Mock  me  not  thus! 
ELIZABETH:     I  mock  not.     Who  dares  mock 
Upon  the  threshold  of  death's  gravity? 
I  may  not  go  with  thee. 

CUTHBERT  (attempting  to  seize  her  in  his  arms) : 

Thou  shalt  go,  Beth, 

Now  Heaven  itself  hath  lent  us  furtherance. 
Safety  awaits  thee  yonder. 

ELIZABETH  (springing  from  him  to  the  window) : 

Back!     One  step, 
And  hence  I  summon  aid ! 


sc.  v  THe  Nxin  of  Rent  233 

CUTHBERT:  Beth — Beth — not  thus 

Avenge  thyself!     Give  not   thy  life  to  prove 
Me  unf orgiven ! 
ELIZABETH  (very  gently):    Dear,  I  love  thee 

so, 

To  gainsay  wish  of  thine  itself  is  death. 
Oh,  tempt  me  not!     Life  in  thine  arms  were 

Heaven. 

Yet  death  wins  closer,  cleansing  me  from  sin. 
CUTHBERT:    Thou    hast    not    sinned,    Beth! 

God  knows — oh,  God  knows 
Thou  art  unjustly  judged,  unjustly  doomed. 
The  priests  misled  thee;   theirs  alone  the  sin. 
'T  is  for  their  sin  thou  diest. 

ELIZABETH  (still  more  gently) :    Dear  my  love, 
Accuse  not  those  who  wronged  me.     I  have 

wronged 
A  country,  where  they  wronged  but  me.     Sin 

lies 

Between  us;   Heaven  will  fair  apportion  it; 
But  me  my  soul  convicts.     'T  is  just  I  die. 
'T  is  of  God's  goodness — of  His  pitying  grace 
He  sent  thee  here  to  bless  this  crowning  hour 
With  the  dear  benediction  of  thy  love. 
Urge  me  no  more.     Not  e'en  for  that  love's  sake 
May  I  go  hence.     Thus,  dying,  I  undo 
My  sin.     Keep  thou  my  memory  as  one 
Who  living  was  unworthy,  but  who,  dead, 
Grew  to  thy  height,  and  merited  thy  love. 
CUTHBERT:     Beth! 


234  THe  Nvin.  of  Rent  ACTV 

ELIZABETH  (coming  to  him):    Beth  again  at 

last — nor  saint,  nor  nun ; 
Only  thy  little  Beth  who  loves  thee  so, 
Come  back  to  rest  this  last  once  on  thy  heart. 
(CUTHBERT  folds  her  to  him  in  agony.  Out 
side  there  is  the  tramp  of  approaching 
feet  and  the  sound  of  slow  drums.) 

SCENE  vi 

(The  same.  Enter  MISTRESS  VANE  wildly,  followed 

by  guards.) 
MISTRESS  VANE  :    O  God,  it  is  too  late !    They 

come!     They  come! 
CUTHBERT  :    The  guards ! 
ELIZABETH    (disengaging    herself  from    him): 
Mine  hour  hath  come ;  the  one  great  hour 
That  rounds  each  life,  bearing  the  trembling  soul 
Back  to  its  birthplace,  naked  and  alone, 
Save  for  its  sins.     (Kneels.)     0  God,  I  did  fear 

death, 

Yet  fear  not  Thee,  so  hath  love  vanquished  fear. 
I  go  to  Thee  as  goes  a  child  to  rest, 
Sure  of  Thy  mercy. 

(The  guards  surround  her.    Behind  open 
doors   stand   others  guarding   the  five 
monks.     Muffled  drums  beat  continu 
ously.) 
CUTHBERT    (fiercely    to    the    guards):    God's 

curse  fall  on  you ! 
Ye  bring  a  saint  to  shame! 


sc.  vi  TKe  N\in  of  Rent  235 

ELIZABETH:  Alas!    Not  so. 

They  bring  a  traitor  to  the  traitor's  end 
And  an  impostor  to  the  world's  disdain. 
They  do  but  justice.     Mother,  fare  thee  well. 
Cuthbert — my  love — my  love — (She  is  led  away.) 
CUTHBERT   (passionately) :     I  die  with  thee ! 
One  fate  shall  yet  be  ours!     Oh,  let  me  hence! 
(He  rushes  madly  after  her,  but  is  repulsed 

by  the  guards.) 

Let  me  die  with  her — I,  the  guiltier! 
Have  not  I  murdered  her  for  Henry's  sake? 
Shall  murderers  go  free? 

(The  guards  thrust  him  back  and  close  the 
doors.     The  slow  drums  beat  without,  the 
sounds  gradually  receding.) 
CUTHBERT    (wildly) :         I  may  not  die? 
Mercy  stops  short  of  justice?     I  live  on — 
I,  who  have  given  her  lovely  soul  to  death — 
Nor  pay  the  price  with  mine  own  piteous  life? 
Now  God,  forgive! 

(He  draws  a  dagger.    His  mother  leaps  to 

wrest  it  from  him.) 

MISTRESS    VANE  :     Cuthbert ! — Son ! — Son ! — 

CUTHBERT:  Forgive! 

(He  stabs  himself  to  the  heart  and  falls  dead. 

The  drums  beat  faintly  in  the  distance.) 

(Curtain  falls.) 


Miscellaneous  Poems 


237 


TO 

ELINOR  COMSTOCK 


239 


IN  MY  WINDOW-SEAT 

I  AM  sitting  in  my  window-seat, 

And  all  the  world  is  still ; 
Only  the  shadows  'neath  my  feet 

Are  creeping  up  the  hill, 
And  the  shadows  above  are  stooping  down 
As  if  to  lay  o'er  the  sleeping  town 
The  folded  mantle,  soft  and  brown, 

They  have  dropped  to  my  window-sill. 

More  dim,  more  dense  the  twilight  grows; 

A  silence  falls  on  earth 
As  if  it  waited  for  the  throes 

Of  some  immortal  birth. 
The  stars  throb  out  with  fitful  light, 
Like  a  golden  pulse  in  the  veins  of  night, 
And  across  the  heavens,  thin  and  white, 

Stretches  the  silver  girth. 

Then  out  upon  the  quivering  dark — 

The  palpitating  sky — 
Athwart  the  gloom  that  seems  to  hark 

A  decree  that  bids  it  die, 
16  241 


242  In  My  Window-Seat 

Dropped  from  a  hand  beyond  our  sight 
There  falls  the  glittering  long  moonlight, 
Like  a  sword  down-flashing  through  the  night 
That  it  severs  in  passing  by. 

And  as  if  wakened  at  the  touch 

To  tremulous  delight, 
Yet  tinged  with  earthliness  overmuch, 

Come  the  voices  of  the  night, 
Now  sad  as  notes  of  mortals  are, 
Now  sweet,  mysterious,  and  far 
As  from  seraphs  poised  on  a  distant  star, 

But  winged  for  nearer  flight. 

My  soul,  borne  upward  with  the  sweep 

Of  the  solemn  exultant  lay, 
Borne  on  by  the  music  grave  and  deep 

Is  lost  in  the  pathless  grey. 
Around  me  are  living  thoughts  astir. 
Above  Truths  interlace  and  blur. 
Beneath  lie  shadows  of  things  that  were, 

And  dreams  dreamed  through  by  day. 

And  as  I  watch,  lo,  over  all, 
O'er  sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, 

A  wondrous  presence  seems  to  fall 
Out  of  the  clouds  that  brood — 

Something  immeasurably  grand, 

As  if  the  shadow  of  God's  hand 

An  instant  lay  across  the  land, 
And  near  us  angels  stood. 


In  My  Window-Seat  243 

And  a  holy  murmur  fills  the  air, 

A  strange  delicious  thrill, 
As  if  men's  hearts  awoke  in  prayer 

To  1'sten  to  God's  will, 
And,  listening,  heard  a  summons  sweet 
Beyond  compare,  and  ceased  to  beat. — 
And  I  sit  alone  in  my  window-seat, 

And  the  world  is  very  still. 


THE  SUNLIGHT 

THE  Sunlight,  the  Sunlight, 

It  cometh  apace ! 
It  breaks  through  the  dun  light 

Of  night-shadowed  space! 
It  conies  with  a  glimmer, 
A  sparkle  and  shimmer. 
The  moon  showeth  dimmer, 

The  planets  give  place! 

It  bendeth,  it  rendeth 

Night's  prisoning  bars! 

Exultant  out-sendeth 

Its  voiceless  hurrahs! 

O'er  bulwarks  and  bowers 

It  scatters  bright  showers, 

Like  luminous  flowers 

Grown  out  of  the  stars. 

O  souls  that  lie  sleeping 
In  doubt  and  in  n  ght, 

Wake,  wake  from  your  weeping! 
Day  comes,  in  despite 

Of  cavil  or  grieving. 

Man's  best  of  believing, 

Is  but  the  receiving 

Of  Heavenly  Light. 


244 


TO  A  ROSEBUD 

O  LITTLE  timid  rose, 
That  if  the  zephyr  blows 

Tremblest  with  fear, 
O  dainty  tender  one, 
That  blushest  if  the  sun 

Glances  anear. 

Yet  fragile  as  thou  art, 
The  secret  of  thy  heart 

Who  thinks  to  win? 
Closer  than  bars  of  gold 
Thy  silken  petals  hold 

The  prize  within. 

And  winds  in  vain  may  blow, 
And  fiercest  sunbeams  glow 

Above  thy  head; 
For  when  thy  sweet  heart  lies 
Open  to  eager  eyes, — 

Lo,  thou  art  dead! 


245 


PAIN 

I  AM  a  Mystery  that  walks  the  earth 

Since  man  began  to  be. 
Sorrow  and  sin  stood  sponsors  at  my  birth, 

And  terror  christened  me. 

More  pitiless  than  Death,  who  gathereth 

His  victims  day  by  day, 
I  doom  man  daily  to  desire  Death, 

And  still  forbear  to  slay. 

More  merciless  than  Time,  I  leave  man  youth, 

And  suck  life's  sweetness  out. 
More  cruel  than  despair,  I  show  man  truth, 

And  leave  him  strength  to  doubt. 

I  bind  the  freest  in  my  subtle  band. 

I  blanch  the  boldest  cheek. 
I  hold  the  hearts  of  poets  in  my  hand, 

And  wring  them  ere  they  speak. 

I  walk  in  darkness  over  souls  that  bleed. 

I  shape  each  as  I  go 
To  something  different.     I  sow  the  seed 

Whence  grapes  or  thistles  grow. 
246 


Pain  247 

No  two  that  dream  me,  dream  the  self-same 
face. 

No  two  name  me  alike. 
A  horror  without  form  I  fill  all  space. 

Across  all  time  I  strike. 

Look  how  man  cringes  to  mine  unseen  rod ! 

Kings  own  my  sovereignty. 
Though  seers  but  prove  me  as  they  prove  a  God, 

Yet  none  denieth  me. 

I  come!     I  come!     Life's  monster  Mystery, 

I  come,  to  bless  or  damn. 

Kneel,  kneel,  vain  soul !     Helpless,  acknowledge 
me! 

Thou  feelest  that  I  am  I 


DAY-DREAMS 

OH,  sweet  are  the  dreams  that  darkness  brings — 
The  fragrant  roses  that  slumber  fl  ngs 

Into  the  garden  of  night ; 
But  sweeter  far  are  the  dreams  that  Day 
Drops  all  along  life's  woful  way, 
As  the  Ivory  Gates  behind  him  sway 

On  their  hinges  of  dappled  light. 

Oh,  beautiful  dreams,  that  spring  like  flowers 
Out  of  the  seeds  of  life's  dark  hours, 

Watered  with  tears  of  pain ; — 
Lilies  that  bloom  mid  sterile  sands, 
Too  frail  to  transplant  to  happier  lands, 
Too  fair  to  gather  in  mortal  hands, 

Too  dear  to  lose  again. 

Oh,  beautiful,  beautiful,  waking  dreams, 
That  flow  like  forest-hidden  streams 

By  the  foot-worn  paths  of  Day; 
Streams  that  go  singing  for  Love's  own  sake; 
Streams  that  their  sweetest  music  make 
Out  of  the  very  stones  that  break 

The  smoothness  of  their  way. 
248 


Day-Dreams  249 

Oh,  exquisite  dreams,  that  softly  show 
Through  the  grey-spun  veil  of  earthly  woe, 

Like  stars  in  wintry  skies, 
Too  far  to  make  our  own,  so  near 
They  tempt  our  grasp,  laid,  large  and  clear, 
On  Night's  dark  forehead,  sphere  on  sphere — 

Jewels  from  Paradise. 

O  stars  that  vanish,  O  flowers  that  fade, 
Streams  that  are  lost  in  the  woodland  shade, 

Bubbles  that  break  with  a  kiss, — 
O  dreams  that  from  the  hidden  roots 
Of  buried  sorrows,  like  green  shoots 
Grow  toward  the  light,  yet  bear  no  fruits, 

Are  ye  less  fair  for  this? 

What    though    ye    be    naught    but   mist-made 

dreams? 
Richer  our  lives  e'en  for  fugitive  gleams 

Of  hopes  that  may  ne'er  be  ours! 
Then  pray  for  a  dreamless  sleep  who  w.'ll — 
For  a  slumber  no  vis  ons  have  power  to  thrill — 
But  oh,  thank  Heaven  that  gives  us  still, 

The  dreams  of  our  waking  hours. 


LOVE  SONG 

As  when  the  day  is  done 
The  clouds  troop  one  by  one 

Toward  the  sun, 
So  turn  my  thoughts  to  thee 
For  aye,  unceasingly, 

Where'er  thou  art; 

Day  of  my  heart ! 

As  grows  toward  the  light 
The  pale  shoot  hid  from  sight 

In  earth's  deep  night, 
So  upward  to  its  goal, 
Swift  stretches  out  my  soul 
To  where  thou  art, 
Light  of  my  heart ! 

As  brooks  merge  in  the  bay, 

As  April  bursts  to  May, 
Morn  swells  to  day, 

So  am  I  lost  in  thee, 

So  must  thou  ever  be 
Of  me  a  part, 
Heart  of  my  heart! 


250 


IN  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

BE  still.     Be  still.     Do  not  speak. 

The  charm  of  the  hour, 
Fallen  soft  as  a  tear  on  a  cheek, 

Holds  me  dumb  in  its  power. 

Be  still,  oh,  be  still!     Speech  were  pain 

In  a  moment  like  this. 
Call  me  not  earthward  again, 

E'en  with  a  kiss. 

Leave  me  alone  with  my  heart, 

To  tremble  and  thrill. 
Oh,  leave  me  before  the  tears  start. 

Or  stay — and  be  still! 


251 


THE  MILKY  WAY 

EVENING  has  come;  and  across  the  skies — 
Out  through  the  darkness  that,  quivering,  dies — 

Beautiful,  broad,  and  white, 
Fashioned  of  many  a  silver  ray 
Stolen  out  of  the  ruins  of  Day, 
Grows  the  pale  bridge  of  the  Milky  Way, 

Built  by  the  architect  Night. 

Dim  with  shadows,  and  bright  with  stars, 
Hung  like  gold  lights  on  invisible  bars 

Stirred  by  the  wind's  spent  breath, 
Rising  on  cloud-shapen  pillars  of  grey, 
Perfect  it  stands,  like  a  tangible  way 
Binding  to-morrow  with  yesterday, 

Reaching  to  Life  from  Death. 

Dark  show  the  heavens  on  either  side; 
Soft  flows  the  blue  in  a  waveless  tide 

Under  the  silver  arch ; 
Never  a  footstep  is  heard  below, 
Echoing  earthward,  as  measured  and  slow, 
Over  the  bridge  the  still  hours  go 

Bound  on  their  trackless  march. 
252 


THe  MilKy  Way  253 

Is  it  a  pathway  leading  to  Heaven 
Over  Earth's  sin-clouds,  rent  and  riven 

With  its  supernal  light, 

Crossed  by  the  souls  of  the  loved  who  have  flown 
Stilly  away  from  our  arms,  and  alone 
Up  to  the  beautiful,  great,  white  Throne 

Pass  in  the  hush  of  night? 

Is  it  the  road  that  our  wild  dreams  walk, 
Far  beyond  reach  of  our  waking  talk, 

Out  to  the  vague  and  grand — 
Far  beyond  Fancy's  uttermost  range, 
Out  to  the  Dream-world  of  marvel  and  change, 
Out  to  the  mystic,  unreal  and  strange — 

Out  to  the  Wonderland? 

Is  it  the  way  that  the  angels  take 

When  they  come  down  by  night  to  wake 

Over  the  slumbering  Earth? 
Is  it  the  way  the  faint  stars  go  back, 
Driven  by  insolent  Day  from  his  track 
Into  the  distant  mysterious  Black 

Where  their  bright  souls  had  birth? 

What  may  it  be?     Who  may  certainly  say? 
Over  the  shadowy  Milky  Way 

No  human  foot  hath  trod. 
^Eons  have  passed;  but  unsullied  and  white, 
Still  it  stands,  fair  as  a  rainbow  of  night, 
Held  like  a  promise  above  our  dark  sight, 

Guiding  our  thoughts  to  God. 


THE  STORM-KING 

STAND  back !    Stand  back 

From  my  giant  track! 
Sweep  the  grey  dust  from  the  way ! 

See  the  pale  grass  bend ! 

See  the  great  trees  rend ! 
Hurrah !     I  am  Lord  of  the  day ! 

I  am  Master  and  King 

Over  everything — 
I  am  Monarch,  and  Earth  must  obey! 

Weave  me  a  gown 

Of  yon  cloud's  black  frown, 
Which  shall  keep  me  warm  as  I  go. 

Pluck  me  a  whip 

From  the  spars  of  yon  ship 
And  a  staff  from  that  forest  below, 

And  this  tall  church-spire 

Is  the  tip  I  desire 
For  the  arrow  I  set  in  my  bow. 

I  am  King!     I  am  King! 
The  whole  world  shall  ring 
My  mad  coronation  bell ! 
Cities  are  shaking. 
Men's  hearts  are  quaking, 
254 


The  Storm-Ring  255 

As  they  quake  before  Azrael. 

I  am  coming!     I  come! 

Beat,  beat  the  drum! 
Let  the  echoes  my  advent  tell! 

Hurrah,  oh,  hurrah! 

Beneath  moon  and  star 
How  will  I  revel  at  night ! 

I  will  build  me  a  fire 

Where  hills  stand  higher, 
And  scream  and  exult  in  its  light, 

And  write  out  my  name, 

In  red  letters  of  flame, 
In  cowering  mortals'  sight. 

I  hiss  and  I  mutter, 

And  none  knows  if  I  utter 
Or  blessing,  or  curse,  or  prayer. 

None  knows  what  I  speak; 

Though  I  storm  and  I  shriek, 
None  interprets  the  message  I  bear. 

I  rave  and  I  rage, 

And  Earth's  wisest  sage 
Hears  no  more  than  the  brute  in  his  lair! 

I  am  King !     I  am  King ! 
And  to  me  one  thing 
Is  beggar,  or  courtier,  or  pope. 
I  thread  into  rags 
The  proudest  of  flags, 


256  XHe  Storm-King 

Or  the  end  of  the  hangman's  rope. 

I  scoff  in  lords'  faces. 

I  jeer  in  high  places. 
I  shout  on  the  graveyard's  slope. 

Oh,  delight!     Oh,  joy! 

The  world  is  my  toy ! 
Hurrah !     I  am  Lord  of  the  day ! 

I  rule  all  alone 

On  my  self-raised  throne, 
And  none  may  dispute  my  sway! 

Then  stand  back !     Stand  back ! 

Sweep  the  dust  from  my  track ! 
I  am  Monarch,  and  Earth  must  obey! 


THE    DANCE 

LET  the  music  play! 
I  would  dance  alway — 

Dance  till  the  dawn  of  the  bright  young  day! 
Wild  notes  are  sounding — swift  lights  are  glanc 
ing, 

And  I — I  am  mad  with  the  rapture  of  dancing — 
Mad  with  a  breathless  delight. 

With  thine  arm  to  enfold  me, 
Thy  strong  hand  to  hold  me, 
I  could  dance  through  an  endless  night. 

Doth  the  music  play? 
Or  is  it — oh,  say — 

But  the  sound  of  thy  voice  that  I  hear  for  alway? 
Is  it  thy  smile  or  the  sweet  lights  glancing? 
Is  it  thy  presence  or  only  the  dancing 
Makes  the  whole  world  so  glad? 
Love  I — ah  me ! — 
Or  the  dance,  or  thee? 
Am  I  mad?    Am  I  mad?    Am  I  mad? 

Bid  the  music  play ! 
Let  us  dance  alway — 

Through  all  life — through  all  time — dance  for 
ever  and  aye ! 
17  257 


258  The  Dance 

Such   wild   notes   are   sounding!     Such   bright 

lights  are  glancing ! 

And  I — I  am  mad  with  the  madness  of  dancing — 
Of  dancing? — or   dancing   with   thee? 

Let  thy  heart's  love  enfold  me! 
Thy  heart's  strength  uphold  me! 
Let  us  dance  till  earth  ceases  to  be! 


THE  BEGGAR 

ALL  day,  all  the  day,  in  the  dust,  in  the  heat, 
With  maddening  brain  and  with  staggering  feet, 
I  stand  on  Life's  highway,  and  beg  my  soul's 
meat. 

All  day,  all  the  day,  in  the  cold,  in  the  rain, 
Through  days  that  are  vapid  and  timeless  with 

pain, 
I  stretch  out  my  hand  to  the  rich — and  in  vain. 

Oh,  my  soul  is  a-hungered — my  soul  is  at  hirst! 
It  cries  out  to  mortals  as  one  God-accurst, 
Abandoned  of  Heaven,  when  life  is  at  worst. 

Say,  say,  is  there  any  'neath  heaven's  blue  sky 
So  beggared  of  faith,  hope,  and  courage  as  I? 
Give,  give,  oh,  my  brothers !    Give,  give,  or  I  die ! 

Shall  I  famish  and  faint  in  the  midst  of  Life's 

mart, 

And  ye  who  seem  pitiful,  spare  not  a  part 
Of  your  souls'  garnered  wealth  for  one  needy 

poor  heart? 

In  vain !     Ye  fling  alms  to  the  rags  that  ye  meet ; 
But  souls  that  lie  naked  and  starved  at  your  feet ; 
These  cry  out  unheard,  and  must  die  on  the 
street. 


259 


THE  FOG 

IT  lies  dim  and  cold  on  the  face  of  the  mould, 

Like  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  the  dead. 
As  chill  and  as  white,  as  dense  and  as  light 
As  the  winding-sheet  laid  in  the  still  of  the  night 
Over  the  funeral  bed. 

No  pulse  seems  to  throb,  no  voice  dares  to  sob 

Beneath  the  grey  calm  of  the  cloud. 
A  hush  holds  the  air  with  pale  bands  of  despair, 
Too  close  to  be  pierced  by  a  curse  or  a  prayer — 
The  hush  of  a  soul  in  its  shroud. 

No  stars  in  the  sky ;  no  lights  low  or  high ; 

No  laughter;    no  weeping;    no  breath; 
No  murmur,  no  sound  in  the  whole  world  around, 
But  a  silence  that  lies  blank  and  chill  on  the 
ground, 

Like  the  visible  presence  of  Death. 

No  murmur.     No  sound.     Only  white  on  the 

ground 

There  creeps  the  thin  silence  along — 
Creeps  near  and  more  near, — oh,  so  dim!  oh,  so 

drear ! 

Till  I  shiver,  as  one  who  has  stood  by  a  bier, 
And  the  words  die  away  in  my  song. 


260 


ONE  SILENT  BIRD  AMID  A  THOUSAND 
SINGING 

ONE  silent  bird  amid  a  thousand  singing, 
One  muffled  bell  amid  a  thousand  ringing,— 
On  the  earth  or  in  the  air 
Doth  it  make  silence  anywhere? 

One  lagging  foot  amid  a  thousand  fleeting, 
One  sinking  heart  amid  a  thousand  beating, 

Save  the  God  who  lists  for  prayer, 

Doth  there  any  heed  or  care? 


261 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL 
I 

GRIMED  with  misery,  want,  and  sin, 

From  a  drunken  brawl  they  brought  him  in, 

While  tearless-eyed  around  his  bed, 
They  whispered  coldly:   " He  is  dead," 

And  looked  askance  as  they  went  past, 

And  said:   "Best  so.     He  has  sinned  his  last." 

But  the  surgeon  sighed :   ' '  Alas !     Not  so. 
A  flicker  of  life  is  yet  aglow." 

And  day  and  night  beside  the  cot, 
He  stayed  his  step,  desisting  not; 

By  night,  by  day,  with  travail  sore, 
Fought  for  the  life  so  nearly  o'er — 

The  worthless  life  so  nearly  told, 

And  the  man  returned  to  his  ways  of  old — 

Went  back  unchanged  to  his  old,  sad  ways, 
And  sinned  and  sinned  to  the  end  of  his  days. 
262 


In  tHe  Hospital  263 

And  the  surgeon  wrote  in  his  private  book : 
"Sin,  sorrow,  wrong,  where'er  I  look. 

"I  have  saved  a  hideous  life.     And  why? 
That  a  man  curse  God  again,  and  die." 

II 

The  mother  smiled  through  her  wretchedness, 
For  the  new-born  babe  lay  motionless. 

The  nurses  looked  at  her  ringless  hand. 

" 'T is  well,"  they  said.     "We  understand." 

But  the  surgeon  sighed:    "Alas!     Not  so. 
Life's  feeble  current  yet  may  flow." 

And  day  and  night  the  cot  beside, 

He  tireless  watched,  naught  left  untried, 

And  wrestling  close  and  long  with  Death, 
He  brought  again  the  faltering  breath, 

To  give  the  poor  unwelcome  life 
Back  to  the  mother  who  was  not  wife, 

Who  took  with  loathing  and  with  shame 
The  babe  that  had  nor  place  nor  name. 

And  the  surgeon  wrote  in  his  private  book: 
"Sin,  sorrow,  wrong,  where'er  I  look. 

"  I  have  saved  a  needless  life.     And  why? 
That  a  babe  risk  Heaven  before  it  die." 


264  In  tHe  Hospital 

III 

With  pitying  hands  and  gentle  feet, 
They  bore  a  child  in  from  the  street, 

Mangled  and  bruised  in  every  limb, 
With  brow  snow-cold  and  blue  eyes  dim. 

And  they  kissed  the  hair  on  his  golden  head, 
And  sobbed:     " Thank  God,  the  child  is  dead." 

But  the  surgeon  sighed:     "Alas!     Not  so. 
Life  lingers  still,  though  ebbing  slow." 

And  day  and  night,  beside  the  cot, 
No  means  unused,  no  skill  forgot, 

Striving  as  if  with  strength  of  ten, 
He  won  the  broken  life  agen 

Back  from  the  brink  of  Death's  calm  river, 
To  struggle,  sicken,  suffer  forever — 

Back  from  the  shores  where  sleep  the  dead, 
To  toss  long  years  on  a  terrible  bed. 

And  the  surgeon  wrote  in  his  private  book : 
"Sin,  sorrow,  wrong,  where'er  I  look. 

"  I  have  saved  a  sorrowful  life.     And  why? 
That  a  child  taste  hell  ere  allowed  to  die." 

And  the  surgeon  closed  his  book,  and  said: 
"  Three  live  by  me  who  best  were  dead." 


In  tKe  Hospital  265 

BEYOND  THE  HOSPITAL 

THE  surgeon's  work  was  done.     He  lay 
Upon  his  death-bed,  old  and  grey, 

Outspent  with  giving  to  mankind 
His  best  of  heart  and  hand  and  mind. 

And  he  crossed  his  arms  above  his  breast, 
"Come,  Death,"  he  said,  "I  long  for  rest." 

"God  judge  me  lightly.     What  I  could, 
I  strove  for;   yet  wrought  harm  for  good." 

Then  swiftly,  all  of  space  was  riven 
To  where  the  angels  stood  in  Heaven. 

And  he  heard  one  say:   "  A  wise  man  dies, 
Shall  I  go  down  and  close  his  eyes?" 

"Not  yet,"  they  said.     "  'T  is  in  his  book: 
'Sin,  sorrow,  wrong,  where'er  I  look.' 

"  Is  he  fit  for  Heaven  who  needs  learn  first, 
That  good  may  underlie  life's  worst? — 

"Who  needs  to  look  beyond  the  event 
To  comprehend  life's  full  intent?" 

Then  through  the  room  was  a  sound  of  wings, 
Like  a  breath  across  aeolian  strings. 


In  tHe  Hospital 

And  the  angels  stood  around  his  bed. 

"  Unlearn  Earth's  falsehoods,  friend,"  they  said. 

And  straightway,  lo,  his  quickened  gaze, 
Saw  through  the  world  and  its  inmost  ways, 

To  where  one  grovelled  steeped  in  sin, 
Grown  to  the  very  beasts  akin. 

"Ah,"  cried  the  surgeon,  "  I  am  cause 
Yon  wretch  still  lives  to  break  God's  laws." 

"  Hold!"  said  the  angels.     "  Canst  thou  tell 
What  sin  consigns  his  soul  to  hell? 

"  Or  doubtest  thou  but  some  late  grace 
May  find,  e'en  him,  in  Heaven  a  place? 

"  Pity  and  help;  but  dare  not  say 
Life  should  be  shortened  by  a  day ; 

"  For  as  men  are  turned  by  a  warning  light, 
So  yon  stray  soul  points  wanderers  right." 

The  shadow  left  the  surgeon's  brow 

As  lifts  the  mist  from  a  breeze-swept  bough; 

And  he  bent  his  wondering  eyes  away 
To  where  a  cradled  infant  lay, 


In  tHe  Hospital  267 

While  the  mother  beat  her  breast  for  shame 
That  the  babe  must  lifelong  bear  her  blame. 

"Ah,  but  for  me,"  the  surgeon  cried, 
"This  guiltless  babe  had  guiltless  died." 

But  the  angels  smiled  on  the  sleeping  face. 
"Greater  than  ours  its  granted  grace, 

"  For  these  frail  hands,"  they  said,  "hold  back 
The  mother's  soul  from  utter  wrack. 

"Pity  and  help.     But  dare  not  say 
Life  should  be  shortened  by  a  day ; 

"For  sweeter  rest  that  is  wage  of  toil: 
And  purer  purity  held  through  soil." 

There  dawned  a  light  in  the  surgeon's  eyes 
As  if  day  broke  through  midnight  skies ; 

And  his  gaze  sought  out  a  darkened  spot 
Where  a  child  tossed,  moaning,  on  his  cot, 

Martyred  in  every  shuddering  vein, 
Through  noons  and  nights  all  one  with  pain. 

The  surgeon  groaned.     "  Ah,  but  for  me 
The  child  were  spared  this  agony ! ' ' 

"  Soft, "  said  the  angels.     "  What  dost  know 
Of  the  beauty  wrought  on  earth  through  woe? 


268  In  the  Hospital 

"Pity  and  help.     But  dare  not  say 
'T  were  better  hasten  death  a  day : 

"For  as  blossoms  spring  on  sunless  knolls, 
Some  graces  bloom  but  in  tortured  souls. 

"And  a  hundred  hearts,  beside  that  one, 
Have  learned  the  joy  of  duties  done ; 

"Have  learned  unselfishness,  patience,  care, 
Beside  that  pain  that  none  may  share. 

"And  the  sufferer — Heaven  deserts  these  not; 
God's  arm  is  round  him.     Envy  his  lot." 

The  surgeon  lifted  his  dying  eyes, 
And  saw  straight  through  to  paradise. 

' '  Amen ! "  he  breathed.  ' '  God  stoops  to  the  weak, 
The  strong  are  they  must  farthest  seek. 

"  For  every  life  this  earth  hath  use, 
Despite  sin,  sorrow,  wrong,  abuse! 

"I  thank  Thee,  Father,  that  those  three 
For  whom  I  wrought,  yet  live  by  me." 

Then  through  the  room  was  a  sudden  sense 
Of  something  exquisite  passing  thence, 

Something  immortally  fine  and  rare 
That  trembled,  flame-like,  on  the  air, 


In  tHe  Hospital  269 

Trembled  and  passed,  and  all  around 
Was  not  a  motion,  nor  a  sound. 

And  in  the  silence,  old  and  grey 
And  marble-still,  the  surgeon  lay. 

But  his  lips  were  wreathed  in  supreme  content. 
He  knew,  at  last  what  Life  had  meant. 


A  SONG  OP  THE  SUNRISE 

THE  night  breaks.     The  light  shakes 

Down  from  the  sky. 
The    darkness    trembles:     shivers,    dissembles: 

Unwilling  to  die. 

And  facile  and  fleet,  on  dusky  feet, 
Out  of  the  dripping  sunlight  tripping, 

Shadows  pass  by, 

All  sprinkled  and  spattered 

With  golden  rain, 

All   shivered,   all  shattered,   like  dream-ghosts 
scattered 

By  the  waking  brain. 

The  light  dawns.     The  night  mourns 

And  the  stars  shiver, 
The  moon  pales.     The  loon  wails 

Far  down  the  river. 

And  strong  in  the  might  of  perfect  delight, 
Fearless  and  bold  with  its  wealth  of  gold, 

Stronger  than  sadness, 

Brighter  than  gladness, 

Mad  with  the  madness 
Of  victory  won — 
270 


.A.  Song  of  tKe  Sxinrise         271 

Above  night's  gloom,  above  life's  bloom, 
Higher  and  higher,  like  a  passioned  desire, 
To  the  highest  height  of  earth's  blinded  sight 

Rises  the  sun, 

And  the  battle  is  done. 

Yet  afar,  unforgetting, 

Hid  by  the  hill, 
Night  awaits  the  day's  setting, 

Revengeful  and  still. 


MIDSUMMER 

A  WIDE  still  valley,  placid  and  deep, 

Where  shadows,  dream-like,  gather  and  creep, 

And  the  sunlight  lies  like  a  smile  asleep. 

A  gleaming  mass  of  yellowing  wheat, 

That  runs  through  the  green  like  a  golden  street, 

Trodden  all  day  by  light  butterflies'  feet. 

A  misty  stretch  of  quivering  corn, 

That  stands  adroop  in  the  sheeny  morn 

Like  hearts  with  secrets  too  great  to  be  borne. 

Fair  glimpses  of  flowers  mid  tangles  of  fern, 
With  dazzles  of  dew-drops  that  shiver  and  burn, 
And  brooks    like  bright  fancies  that  turn  and 
return. 

Far  over  the  whole  an  enchantment  of  peace — • 
A  light  like  the  glint  of  the  Golden  Fleece— 
A  glamour  of  beauty  too  perfect  to  cease. 


272 


A  MYSTERY 

LIFE  held  in  her  hands  a  measure, 

And  swung  it  lightly  and  low ; 
And  she  said :   "I  will  see  if  my  pleasure 

Do  not  outweigh  my  woe." 
And  she  gathered  all  stingless  laughter, 

All  loves  that  were  lasting  and  sure, 
All  joys  that  left  memories  after, 

All  wealth  that  was  wingless  and  pure; 
She  gathered  all  sunlight  and  starlight, 

All  thornless  and  fadeless  flowers; 
She  gathered  the  faint  light  and  far  light 

Of  pangless  and  perfect  hours; 
She  gathered  all  glimpses  elysian 

That  never  had  blasted  the  soul, 
All  hopes  that  had  held  to  fruition, 

All  talents  that  won  to  the  goal, 
All  wisdom  that  never  had  saddened, 

All  truths  that  never  had  lied, 
All  ambitions  that  never  had  maddened, 

All  beauty  that  satisfied, 
And  flung  them  all,  all  in  her  measure, 

But  nothing  outbalanced  the  pain. 
Then  she  said:   "  I  must  add  yet  a  treasure, 

The  kindest  and  best  in  my  train," 
is  273 


274  A  Mystery 

And  reached  out  and  took  Death,  and  laid  it 

All  restful  and  calm  on  the  scale; 
Yet  pain,  as  be  ore,  still  outweighed  it, 

And  sighing  she  cried:     "Could  this  fail?" 
Then  she  reached  up  to  merciful  Heaven, 

Took  down  and  flung  over  Earth's  strife, 
A  little  pale  hope  all  unproven — 
.    The  hope  of  a  measureless  life; 
Flung  it  down  with  a  doubting  and  wonder, 

With  question  and  touch  of  disdain; 
When  lo,  swift  the  light  scale  went  under; 

Life's  woe  was  outweighed  by  Life's  gain. 

Oh,  strange,  oh,  most  strange!     If  the  measure 

Of  all  mortal  days  be  but  woe 
Compared  with  their  acme  of  pleasure, 

Life  mused,  as  she  swung  the  scale  low, 
Why  then  should  it  lessen  Earth's  sorrow, 

Why  glorify  Death's  consequence, 
To  believe  in  a  timeless  to-morrow? — 

And  Life  held  the  scale  in  suspense. 


SLEEP 

POOR  pain-worn  mortal,  dost  thou  weep? 
Awhile  thy  troubled  patience  keep. 
Night  cometh  surely.     Thou  shalt  sleep. 

Take  up  thy  burden.     Is  the  day 
Too  long  for  thy  lost  courage?     Nay: 
Night  will  o'ertake  thee  by  the  way. 

Thou  shalt  not  hear;  thou  shalt  not  see; 
But  better  than  death  will  come  to  thee, 
For,  living,  thou  shalt  cease  to  be. 

Better  than  death;   for  none  hath  told 
Death's  consequence.     And  death  may  hold 
Undreamed-of  terrors  manifold. 

Death  may  be  gain,  or  may  be  woe. 
Sleep  hath  no  may-be.     Sleep  we  know. 
It  is,  it  was,  and  shall  be  so. 

No  law,  no  conscience  doth  it  keep 
Within  its  unimpassioned  deep. 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  sin  hath  Sleep. 
275 


276  Sleep 

To  sleep  is  to  unlive ;  to  be 

As  thou  hadst  never  been ;  to  free 

Thyself  from  all  that  maketh  thee; 

Nothing  but  nothingness  to  know ; 
To  be  unborn  without  a  throe — 
Uncreate  at  a  pangless  blow. 

Then  ye  who  fear,  and  ye  who  weep, 
A  few  short  hours  your  patience  keep. 
God  must  be  good.     For  God  made  Sleep. 


GOOD-BYE 

WE  say  it  for  an  hour  or  for  years; 
We  say  it  smiling,  say  it  choked  with  tears; 
We  say  it  coldly,  say  it  with  a  kiss; 
And  yet  we  have  none  other  word  than  this — 

Good-bye. 

We  have  no  dearer  word  for  our  heart's  friend. 
To  him  who  journeys  to  the  world's  far  end 
And  scars  our  soul  with  going,  thus  we  say 
As  unto  him  who  but  steps  o'er  the  way — 

Good-bye. 

Alike  to  those  we  love  and  those  we  hate, 
We  say  no  more  in  parting.     At  life's  gate, 
To  one  who  passes  out  beyond  earth's  sight, 
We  cry  as  to  the  wanderer  for  a  night, 

Good-bye. 


277 


THE  SETTING  SUN 

ONE  radiant  outflash  of  surpassing  splendour, 
And  with  the  perfect  peace  of  self-surrender, 

Without  a  tear, 

Without  a  fear, 

Like  some  high  spirit  summoned  from  our  sight, 
The  sun  steps  down  into  the  unknown  night. 


278 


TO  A  HURT  CHILD 

WHAT,  are   you   hurt,  Sweet?     So   am   I; 

Cut  to  the  heart ; 
Though  I  may  neither  moan  nor  cry, 

To  ease  the  smart. 

Where  was  it,  Love?     Just  here!     So  wide 

Upon  your  cheek ! 
Oh,  happy  pain  that  needs  no  pride, 

And  may  dare  speak. 

Lay  here  your  pretty  head.     One  touch 

Will  heal  its  worst. 
While  I,  whose  wound  bleeds  overmuch, 

Go  all  unnursed. 

There,  Sweet.     Run  back  now  to  your  play. 

Forget  your  woes. 
I  too  was  sorely  hurt  this  day ; — 

But  no  one  knows. 


279 


I  CAN  NOT  KNEEL— I  CAN  NOT  PRAY 

I  CAN  not  kneel — I  can  not  pray — 
My  dumb  heart  has  no  words  to  say. 
My  stubborn  knees  refuse  to  bend. 
They  kneel  who  pray,  and  to  what  end 
Should  I  kneel,  who  can  make  no  prayer 
Out  of  my  agonised  despair? 
My  sorrow  lies  beyond  the  reach 
Of  any  form  of  human  speech. 
God  is  so  great,  and  I  so  weak; 
How  can  so  hurt  a  creature  speak? 
How  move  Him  to  undo  the  woe? — 
Calm  with  the  vastness  of  the  blow, 
I  can  but  gaze  with  stricken  eyes 
Up  into  His  imperial  skies, 
Drop  my  vain  hands  upon  my  breast, 
And  feel  what  God  wills  must  be  best. 


280 


MOTHER,  MOTHER,  CAN  IT  BE? 

MOTHER,  Mother,  can  it  be 
There  lives  any  one  but  me 
Who  has  known  this  agony? 

Mother,  0  Mother,  when  they  said 
That  thy  sweetest  soul  had  fled, 
It  was  I  who  died  instead. 

Thee  they  laid  away  to  sleep 
Out  of  sight  of  all  who  weep. 
Me  unburied  still  they  keep. 

Who  will  show  them  I  am  dead? 
Who  will  ask  that  o'er  my  head 
Moan  be  made  and  prayers  be  said? 

More  dead  am  I  than  thou  art. 
Love  lies  spoiling  at  my  heart. 
Who  dares  keep  us  twain  apart  ? 

Dead,  I  know  no  more  men's  faith. 
Dead,  I  hear  not  what  God  saith 
Nothing  am  I  but  a  wraith. 
281 


282     Mother,  Mother,  Can  it  be  ? 

Restless,  ghost-like,  to  and  fro, 
Haunting  thy  dear  home  below, 
Speechless  day  by  day  I  go ; 

Conscious  only  of  a  pain 

Rends  my  very  soul  in  twain, 

Robs  of  Heaven  and  makes  Earth  vain. 

Mother,  Mother,  thou  art  where? 
Art  not  here,  and  art  not  there. 
And  seeking,  I  but  find — despair. 


THE  POET-HEART 

ONE  day,  in  Time's  mythical  ages, 

Fair  Life,  and  her  bond-servant  Pain, 

Her  workman,  who  works  without  wages, 

And  wiser  who  is  than  all  sages 
That  follow  the  stars  in  her  train, 

Together,  in  friendliest  fashion 

Sat  framing  a  true  poet-heart ; 
And  with  infinite  care  and  compassion, 
Life  chose  out  each  charm  and  each  passion, 

And  blent  them  with  marvellous  art. 

Now  fairer,  she  cried,  than  Earth's  fairest, 

This  exquisite  spirit  shall  be, 
Enriched  with  all  gifts  that  are  rarest. 
Give  heed  that  no  power  thou  sparest 

In  moulding  my  poet  for  me. 

Here  are  days  that  are  golden  and  sunny, 
And  a  heart  made  to  gather  their  light, 

And  hoard  it  as  misers  hoard  money, 

And  hold  it  as  flowers  hold  honey, 
And  tremble  and  thrill  with  delight. 
283 


284  TKe  Poet-Heart 

Take,   take,   without   stint,   without   measure, 

Of  all  that  I  have  that  is  best ; 
Of  beauty,  of  love,  and  of  pleasure 
Take  richly,  and  make  at  thy  leisure 

A  poet  to  sing  me  to  rest. 

And  so  from  her  store-house  of  graces, 

Fair  Life,  with  a  smile,  gave  the  whole, 
While  Pain,  with  the  stillest  of  faces, 
And  fingers  whose  touch  left  no  traces, 
Wrought  her  of  these  a  soul. 

Then  he  stood  up  and  said :   It  is  ended, 
And  held  forth  his  soul  to  the  light — 
A  wondrous  creation,  where  blended 
Strange  shadows,  and  sunlight  so  splendid 
It  darkened  all  else  to  the  sight. 

Life  took  and  beheld  it  in  gladness. 

Such,  cried  she,  true  poets  should  be, 
All  ecstasy,  rapture,  and  sadness, 
Created  in  moments  of  madness, 

And  fashioned,  O  Pain- God,  by  thee. 

This,  sure,  is  thy  ripest  endeavour, 

Cried  Life,  smiling  soft  as  she  spoke. 
Now  poet-heart,  sing  on  forever! — 
Alas!     Earth  will  hear  the  song  never. 

Pain  touched  it  once  more. — And  it  broke. 


MY  LETTER 

FROM  far  away,  from  far  away, 

It  journeyed  swiftly  night  and  day. 

It  rested  not.     With  cruel  haste 

It  crossed  the  ocean's  trackless  waste. 

It  swerved  no  moment  in  its  flight 

Through  mist  and  storm  and  deepest  night. 

No  mercy  prompted  it  to  stay, 

No  pity  moved  it  to  delay. 

O'er  seas  that  rose  up  to  detain, 

Silent  as  Death  it  sped  amain. 

Through  cities  crowding  close  and  strong, 

Undazed,  untired,  it  fled  along. 

No  voice  cried  out  through  all  the  land. 

Great  Heaven  saw,  yet  stirred  no  hand. 

No  angel,  kinder  than  the  rest, 

Held  his  white  shield  before  my  breast. 

Across  the  land,  across  the  sea, 

Straight,  swift,  and  sure,  it  came  to  me. 

Unlet,  unhindered,  undeterred, 

Straight,  swift,  and  sure,  it  brought  me  word 


285 


GOOD-NIGHT  MOTHER 

GOOD-NIGHT,  Mother.     Thou  dost  sleep, 

While  my  lonely  watch  I  keep. 

Suns  blaze  brightly  overhead ; 

Moons  pass  by  with  silver  tread; 

Night  and  day,  and  day  and  night 

Alternate  with  shade  and  light. 

But  I  know  no  change.     To  me 

All  is  dark  apart  from  thee. 

Lost  my  life  its  whole  of  light, 

When  I  bade  thee,  dear,  good-night. 

Good-night,  Mother  dear,  good-night. 
Soft  thy  slumbers  be  and  light. 
Though  I  call  thee  through  the  years — 
Call  with  passion  of  wild  tears — 
May  no  dream  of  my  unrest 
Cross  the  quiet  of  thy  breast ; 
May  no  memory  of  me, 
Agonised  on  earth  for  thee, 
Come  to  grieve  thee  or  affright. 
Good-night,  Mother  dear,  Good-night. 

Good-night,    oh,    my    dearest.     Sleep. 
God  hide  from  thee  that  I  weep. 
286 


Good-nig'Kt  MotHer  287 

Sleep,  sleep,  Mother,  while  I  wake 
Life's  long  night  through  for  thy  sake, 
Bound  up  heart  and  soul  and  brain 
In  a  timeless  stretch  of  pain — 
In  a  blank  mid-night  of  sorrow 
That  has  neither  moon  nor  morrow. 
God  so  wills.     It  must  be  right. 
Thine  the  slumber;  mine,  the  night. 


PAIN  WROUGHT 

PAIN,  Pain,  the  Creator  Pain 

Is  making  a  poet  of  me. 
He  has  flung  my  soul  in  the  pit  below 
Where  his  furnace  fires  the  fiercest  glow. 
He  is  feeding  the  flames  with  woe  on  woe. 
My  heart  must  thrill  with  every  throe 
That  human  creature  can  live  to  know. 

I  must  suffer  that  I  may  sing. 

Pain,  Pain,  the  Creator  Pain 

Is  working  his  will  with  me. 
Ashes  and  ruin  and  havoc  complete 
Has  he  wrought  of  all  I  held  dear  and  sweet 
My  soul  lies  scarred  in  the  scorching  heat. 
My  thoughts  run  riot  with  blazing  feet, 
Like  madmen  through  a  deserted  street. 

And  because  I  suffer,  I  sing. 


288 


IN  LIFE'S  TUNNEL 

BORNE  by  a  Power  resistless  and  unseen 

We  know  not  whither, 

We  look  out  through  the  gloom  with  troubled 
mien. 

How  came  we  hither? 

Darkness  before  and  after.     Blank,  dim  walls 

On  either  side, 
Against  which  our  dull  vision  beats  and  falls, 

Met  and  defied. 

Shrouded  in  mystery  that  leaves  no  room 

To  guess  aright, 
We  rush,  uncertain,  to  a  certain  doom. — 

When  lo,  the  light! 


19  289 


SYMPATHY 

FRIEND,  art  thou  drowning?     So  am  I. 

Hold  by  my  hand. 
Nearer  is  my  vain  help,  than  help 

From  yonder  land. 

Friend,  art  thou  starving?     So,  too,  I. 

Therefore  I  come 
To  thee — not  to  the  over-fed — 

To  ask  a  crumb. 

Friend,  hast  thou  nothing?     Less  have  I. 

Yet  beggared  ones 
Give  more  to  those  who  beg  than  e'er 

Earth's  richest  sons. 


290 


WEDDED,  BUT  NOT  MATED 

WEDDING  bells  and  death-knells 

Ringing  forth  together. 
(Shines  the  sun?  or  is  it  dun? 

Or  is  it  stormy  weather?) 
Oh,  woe  the  knells!     Oh,  joy  the  bells 

That  sob  and  shout  in  chime! 
They  bid  to  a  marriage  and  funeral  carriage 

At  one  and  the  self -same  time. 

Wedding  bells  and  death-knells 

Ringing  forth  together. 
(Be  there  sun  or  be  there  none, 

What  care  I  for  the  weather?) 
They  toll,  they  toll,  for  a  tortured  soul. 

They  call  to  a  marriage  feast. 
One  shall  be  wedded,  one  be  buried, 

And  both  by  the  self -same  priest. 

Wedding  bells  and  death-knells 

Ringing  forth  together. 
(Falls  the  rain  upon  the  pane? 

'T  is  time  for  saddest  weather!) 
Funeral  knells  and  marriage  bells. 

A  shroud  and  a  wedding  ring. 
A  soul  is  wed.     A  soul  is  dead. 

The  bells  have  ceased  to  swing. 


291 


WHERE  AM  I  WHILE  I  SLEEP? 

WHERE  am  I  while  I  sleep?     When  I  lie  down, 

Heavy  with  grief  for  one  who  sleeps  so  well 

My  bitterest  cry  may  no  more  waken  her, 

I  say:    Let  me  sleep  quickly,  that  perchance 

God  send  me  dream  of  her,  to  ease  my  woe 

With  sweet  deceit  of  seeing  her  again. 

And  so  I  lie  as  they  lie  who  are  dead, 

My  hands  like  folded  flowers  on  either  side, 

My  sad  eyes  closed  o'er  all  their  frozen  tears, 

And  sleep  for  hope  of  that  which  sleep  may  bring. 

Where  am  I  then,  through  all  the  unhistoried 

night? 

Down  what  dim  a'sles,  unreckoned  of  by  day, 
Doth  my  dumb  soul  its  trackless  path  pursue? — 
By  what  far  shore  find  gracious  harbourage? 
Oh,  can  it  be  that  those  who  only  sleep 
And  those  who  die,  together  wait  in  Heaven 
The  dawning  of  the  day,  soul  welcoming  soul 
And  claiming  kinship  in  a  wondrous  world 
Closed  to  our  waking  vision?     Can  it  be 
That  thus  on  night's  invisible  borderland 
Our  spirits  meet  beyond  Earth's  cognisance, 
Communing  still  in  some  strange  heavenly  sense 
292 


Where  am  I  while  I   Sleep?     293 

That  leaves  its  impress  on  returning  souls — 

Some  touch  of  infinite  beatitude 

Beyond  Life's  gift — some  strengthening  peace 

that  lends 

Endurance  for  the  day? — Oh,  this  alone, 
Though  neither  memory  nor  dream  thereof 
Remain  to  soothe  our  waking,  this  were  cause 
To  long  for  night's  enfranchisement,  to  cry 
For  slumber  as  for  Heaven,  and  wake  at  last, 
Reclothed  in  calm,  with  new- won  hope  that  death, 
Even  as  sleep,  may  give  what  day  denies. 


HOPELESS 

THERE  lay  a  soul  in  mortal  pain, 

And  given  o'er,  't  was  said ; 
The  wise  men  wrought  and  strove  in  vain. 

Naught  can  restore,  they  said. 
But  Love  stood  by  and  laughed  aloud. 
Earth's  highest  skill  can  weave  a  shroud, 

And  nothing  more,  he  sa  d. 

I  only  in  the  world  can  give 

Drugs  for  her  pain,  he  said. 
I  only  can  give  strength  to  live, 

Making  life  gain,  he  said. 
Upon  your  dulness  lie  the  sin! 
Because  no  man  doth  call  me  in, 

She  '11  die  amain,  he  said. 


294 


AN  ENIGMA 

To  have  not,  is  to  long  for  with  desire. 

To  have,  is  but  to  lose. 
To  lose,  is  to  remember  and  expire. 

How  may  one  rightly  choose? 
Between  a  want,  a  loss,  a  lifelong  pain, 
What,  saving  death,  hath  any  soul  of  gain? 


295 


BETWEEN  THE  LINES 

0  FRIEND,  you  have  read  it  aright, 
Just  as  I  meant  that  you  should. 

1  penned  it  in  plain  black  and  white, 

To  be  so  and  so  understood. 

Yes,  thus  was  it  written,  0  friend, 

According  to  every  law. 
I  swear  it,  I  did  not  intend 

A  syllable  save  what  you  saw. 

'T  was  all  that  I  willed  you  to  read — 
Resolved  that  but  this  should  be  seen. 

Yet  God!  what  a  different  creed 

My  mad  thoughts  wrote  in  between! 

So  you  read  only  just  what  you  could ; 

And  the  actual  letter  of  all, 
Written  with  very  heart's  blood, 

Ah! — you  never  got  it  at  all. 


296 


THE  SONG  OP  THE  CRICKET 

YES,  the  world  is  big,  but  I  '11  do  my  best 
Since  I  happen  to  find  myself  in  it, 

And  I  11  sing  my  loudest  out  with  the  rest, 
Though  I  'm  neither  a  lark  nor  a  linnet, 

And  strive  for  the  goal  with  as  tireless  zest, 
Though  I  know  I  may  never  w  n  it. 

For  shall  no  bird  sing  but  the  nightingale? 

No  flower  bloom  but  the  rose? 
Shall  the  stars  put  out  their  torches  pale 

When  Mars  through  the  midnight  glows? 
Shall  only  the  highest  and  greatest  prevail? 

Nay  nothing  seem  white  but  the  snows? 

Nay,  the  world  is  so  big  that  it  needs  us  all 

To  make  audible  music  in  it. 
God  fits  a  melody  e'en  to  the  small. 

We  have  nothing  to  do  but  begin  it. 
So  I  '11  chirp  my  merriest  out  with  them  all, 

Though  I  'm  neither  a  lark  nor  a  linnet! 


297 


IN  THE  TEENS 

BUTTERFLIES,  and  treasure 
Of  buds  that  crowd  the  green; 

Sunshine  without  measure; 

Silvern  days  of  leisure ; 

Hearts  too  full  of  pleasure; — 
April — and  Thirteen. 

Books  and  half  beginnings; 

Rains,  with  lights  between; 
Pangs  o'er  fancied  sinnings; 
Toils,  with  rose-leaved  innings; 
Losses  matched  with  winnings;— 

Maytime— and  Sixteen. 

Dreams,  with  dim  regrettings; 

Storms  and  blinding  sheen; 
Gains,  with  griefs  for  frettings; 
Jewels,  in  crushed  settings; 
Wounds,  salved  with  f orgettings  ;- 

June— July— Nineteen. 


298 


THE  GIFT  OF  SONG 

WHEN  I  was  born 

God  stood  in  Heaven,  and  asked:    What  wilt 

thou,  Soul? 

I  said:   The  gift  of  Song; 
I  ask  no  more  than  this — that  I  may  sing. 
God  sighed,  and  lo,  Grief  fell 
From  out  high  Heaven  and  smote  me  on  the 

heart. 

I  cried  aloud  for  pain,  and  beat  my  breast. 
But  all  my  cries  were  music,  and  men  list, 
And  feasted  on  the  sweetness  of  my  woe. 
While  I,  I  hid  my  face, 
And  knew  not  day  from  night  for  agony. 
O  God,  I  cried,  take  back  thy  poisoned  gift, 
The  gift  of  Song! 
Let  me  be  dumb  for  ever,  only  so 
My  pain  have  ease ! 

Then  God  did  hear  again,  and  stooped  Him  down 
And  drew  the  burning  arrow  from  my  side; 
And  silence  fell  on  me;  my  pulse  stood  still, 
My  lips  closed  softly,  and  I  sang  no  more. 
But  men  turned  from  me,  saying:    He  is  dead. 


299 


SWEET  MOTHER  OF  MY  DREAMS 

SWEET  Mother  of  my  dreams, 

Come,  come  to-night ! 
How  can  I  meet  an  added  morrow, 
Till  thou  bring  solace  to  my  sorrow, 

Cleaving  life's  pain 

By  night  in  twain? 

Sweet  Mother  of  my  dreams, 
Bring  love!     Bring  peace! 

As  day  is  death  by  loss  of  thee, 

So  night  is  life  by  gift  of  thee, 
Albeit  I  waken, 
Twofold  forsaken. 

Sweet  Mother  of  my  dreams, 

Thank  God  for  thee! 
Not  all  Christ's  mercy  is  forsworn, 
While  I,  sometimes,  twixt  dusk  and  morn, 

Still  touch  thy  hand, 

In  slumber-land. 


300 


COURAGE 

HAST  thou  made  shipwreck  of  thy  happiness? 

Yet,  if  God  please, 
Some  humble  port  awaits  thee  none  the  less, 

In  nearer  seas, 
Where  thou  mayst  sleep  for  utter  weariness, 

If  not  for  ease. 

The  haven  dreamed  of  thou  shalt  never  reach, 

Though  gold  its  gates, 
And  wide  and  fair  the  silver  of  its  beach. 

For  sorrow  waits 
To  pilot  all  whose  aims  too  far  outreach, 

Toward  darker  straits. 

Yet  so  no  soul  divine  thou  art  astray, 

On  this  cliff's  crown 
Plant  thou  a  victor  flag  ere  breaks  the  day 

Across  night's  brown, 
And  none  shall  guess  it  doth  but  point  the  way 

Where  a  bark  went  down. 


301 


AN  AGNOSTIC 

No  disciple  am  I,  Lord, 
Doing  battle  for  Thy  word, 
Girt  with  truth  as  with  a  sword; 
Yet  I  follow  Thee. 

I  am  struggling  in  the  night ; 
Nowhere  is  a  point  of  light ; 
Doubt  hath  hid  Thy  cross  from  sight ; 
Yet  I  follow  Thee. 

Who  can  say  what  lies  before: — 
Gateways  to  a  golden  shore, 
Or  but  death  for  evermore? 

Yet  I  follow  Thee. 

Hope  is  dead  in  my  dead  heart ; 
Faith  I  had  not  from  the  start ; 
From  all  creeds  I  stand  apart ; 

Yet  I  follow  Thee. 

Be  Thou  God,  or  man,  or  aught 
Save  a  vision  overwrought 
By  men's  yearnings,  I  know  naught ; 
Yet  I  follow  Thee  — 
302 


An  Agnostic  303 

Follow  Thee  through  pain  and  gloom, 
Though  to  lose  Thee  in  the  tomb. 
Yet  to  love  Thee  is  my  doom, 

And  I  follow  Thee. 


TO  A  WOUNDED  MOTH 

WHAT  help  have  I  for  thee,  frail  thing, 

Least  of  thy  clan, 

Battling  'gainst  fate  with  bruised  wing? 
Albeit  I  hold  thee  in  my  hand, 
Farther  am  I  from  thee  than  stand 

The  stars  from  man. 

Dost  thou  cry  out  ?     Dost  thou  make  moan  ? 

I  hear  thee  not. 

Thy  worst  pain  thou  must  bear  alone. 
The  utmost  pity  on  my  part 
Can  drop  no  balsam  to  thy  heart. 

It  is  thy  lot. 

And  yet,  more  merciful  to  thee 

Than  Heaven  to  us 
Through  year-long  plaint  of  agony — 
More  kind  than  He,  of  whom  in  vain, 
Kneeling,  we  beg  surcease  of  pain, 

I  kill  thee — thus. 


304 


LOVE  NOW 

You  will  love  me  the  day  I  lie  dying. 

Oh,  love  me  then  living, 
While  yet  from  a  full  heart  replying, 

I  give  to  your  giving. 

What  gain  hath  my  lifetime  of  loving, 

If  you  pass  it  all  by, 
To  give  me  back  treble  my  loving 

In  the  hour  I  die? 

All  anguish,  all  maddest  adoring 

Will  be  vain  in  that  day. 
Though  you  knelt  to  me  then  with  imploring, 

What  word  could  I  say? 

Oh,  love  me  then  now,  that  it  quicken 

My  heart's  failing  breath ! 
Why  wait,  till  to  love  is  to  sicken 

At  the  coldness  of  death? 


305 


LISTENING 

I  LISTEN  and  I  listen 
For  one  I  long  to  greet, 

And  I  hear  the  ceaseless  passing 
Of  footsteps  on  the  street. 

I  hear  them  coming,  coming, 
So  straight,  so  sure,  so  fast; 

And  I  hush  my  heart  to  hearken. 
But  all  the  feet  go  past. 

Will  it  be  so  for  ever? 

As  on  my  bed  I  lie, 
And  count  the  pleasures  coming, 

Will  every  one  go  by? 

Or  may  it  one  day  happen, 
That  when  I  hark  no  more, 

Some  late  lone  joy,  unnoticed, 
Will  linger  at  my  door? 


306 


FLOWERTIME  WEATHER 

WHEN  you  and  I  are  together, 

That  makes  for  me  flowertime  weather, 

Albeit  the  rain 

Beats  harsh  on  the  pane, 
And  November  lies  brown  on  the  lea. 

But  alas  for  my  flowertime  weather 
When  we  are  no  longer  together ! 

Though  June  hold  the  land 

In  the  palm  of  her  hand, 
It  is  everywhere  Winter  to  me. 


307 


WERE  I  YON  STAR 

WERE  I  yon  star  whose  silver  ray 

Turns  dusk  to  day, 
Lo,  I  would  hide  me  till  you  came, 

Then  burst  in  flame 
Athwart  the  darkness  on  your  sight, 

And  die  in  light. 

Were  I  yon  rose  whose  fragrance  rare 

Scents  all  the  air, 
I  would  not  blossom  till  the  day 

You  passed  this  way, 
Then  pour  my  heart  out  in  perfume 

And  die  in  bloom. 

Were  I  yon  lark  whose  sunny  song 

Sounds  all  day  long, 
Lo,  I  would  hush  me  till  you  passed, 

Then  wake  at  last, 
Spread  my  glad  wings  out  toward  the  sky, 

Sing  once,  and  die. 


308 


MY  OTHER  ME 

CHILDREN,  do  you  ever 
In  walks  by  land  or  sea, 

Meet  a  little  maiden 
Long  time  lost  to  me? 

She  is  gay  and  gladsome, 

Has  a  laughing  face, 
And  a  heart  as  sunny; 

And  her  name  is  Grace. 

Naught  she  knows  of  sorrow, 
Naught  of  doubt  or  blight. 

Heaven  is  just  above  her. 
All  her  thoughts  are  white. 

Long  time  since  I  lost  her, 
That  other  Me  of  mine. 

She  crossed  into  Time's  shadow, 
Out  of  Youth's  sunshine. 

Now  the  darkness  keeps  her, 

And  call  her  as  I  will, 
The  years  that  lie  between  us, 

Hide  her  from  me  still. 
309 


310  My  Other  Me 

I  am  dull  and  pain- worn, 
And  lonely  as  can  be. 

O  children,  if  you  meet  her, 
Send  back  my  other  Me! 


THE  WAY  TO  BE  HAPPY 

NEVER  to  want  what  one  may  not  have — 

Always  to  want  what  one  may. 
Never  to  long  for  the  love  that  is  lost, 

Nor  by  night  to  remember  the  day. 

To  be  fonder  of  winter  than  summer  or  spring, 
To  be  fonder  of  leaves  than  of  flowers. 

To  be  fonder  of  toil  than  of  riches  and  rest, 
And  of  pain  than  of  pleasureful  hours. 

To  demand  nothing  more  of  the  heart  one  loves 
best, 

Than  the  least  one  would  grant  to  one's  foe. 
To  ask  no  return  for  the  gift  of  one's  all, 

Save  the  loan  of  a  heartache  or  so. 

To  believe  there  are  purpose  and  beauty  in  woe. 

To  believe  that  to  fail  is  to  win. 
To  stand  in  Hope's  graveyard  alone,  and  prefer 

The  Now  to  the  What-might-have-been. 


SWINGING 

HIGHER,  higher,  farther  away, 

Swing  me — swing  me — swing  me ! 
Up  to  the  tree-top,  up  to  the  sky, 
So  that  none  other  has  swung  so  high ! 
I  will  out-fly  the  bees  and  the  birds  and  the  winds. 

I  will  out-soar  the  song  of  the  lark. 
I  will  reach  to  the  clouds.     I  will  shout  in  blue 

space. 
I  will  laugh  in  the  shadowy  silver  face 

Of  the  moon,  as  she  sits  in  the  dark! 
Oh,  higher,  oh,  higher,  oh,  farther  away, 

Swing  me — swing  me — swing  me ! 

See  how  I  cleave  the  dim  air  in  my  flight, 

Like  a  dart  from  an  unseen  bow. 
See  how  I  leap  through  the  gloom  of  the  night, 
Like  a  vision  of  sudden  and  sweetest  delight 

Shot  through  a  lifetime  of  woe. 
Upward,  upward,  upward  alway, 
Like  a  spirit  set  free  from  its  prison  of  clay, 
That  speeds  through  the  ether  away  and  away 

To  a  world  that  none  else  of  us  know — 
Oh,  higher,  oh,  higher,  oh,  farther  away 

Swing  me — swing  me — swing  me! 
312 


Swinging  313 

No  higher?     No  higher?     No  higher? 

Oh,  swing  me — swing  me — swing  me! 
Can  I  stop  so  far  short  of  my  nearest  desire? 
Is  it  so  childish,  so  vain,  to  aspire? 

Oh,  swing  me,  and  swing  me,  and  swing  me! 
I  would  soar  far  above  me.     Oh,  help  if  you  love 

me! 

Oh,  lend  me  the  charm  of  love's  powerful  arm! 
Nay,  faster  and  faster!     Oh,  farther,  I  pray! 
Can  the  dream  end  so  soon?     I  was  more  than 
half-way, 

Oh,  swing  me !     Oh,  swing  me !     Oh,  swing  me ! 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM 

VAGUE  as  the  shadows,  'neath  April-leafed  trees, 

Is  Love's  young  Dream. 
Light  as  a  thistledown  tossed  on  the  breeze, 

Is  Love's  young  Dream. 
Frail  as  a  fibre  of  frost-woven  lace — 
Dim  as  the  thought  of  a  phantom  face — 
Faint  as  the  footprints  of  planets  through  space, 

Is  Love's  young  Dream. 

Oh,  brilliant  and  cold  as  the  moon  on  the  snow, 

Is  Love's  young  Dream ! 
Oh,  pulseless  in  bliss  and  unwounded  in  woe, 

Is  Love's  young  Dream ! 
Shallow  as  brooklets  that  laugh  as  they  run, 
And  soulless  as  starlight  when  dawn  is  begun ! 
Oh,  unlike  to  Love  as  glowworm  to  sun, 

Is  Love's  young  Dream ! 


A  BIRTHDAY  SONG 

OUT  and  away,  my  song. 
The  road  is  long ; 
The  time  is  short ; 
For  thou  by  break  of  day,  my  song, 
Must  reach  thy  port. 
Hie  through  the  night ! 
Catch  thee  a  star-beam  for  thy  steed. 
Saddle  and  curb  it  to  thy  need 

With  diamonded  light. 
Bind  the  whole  heavens  to  its  feet, 
Then  leap  into  thy  seat 
And  loose  it  for  wide  flight ! 
Joy  be  thy  spur  and  love  thy  whip. 
For  ere  the  moon  hath  bent  to  lave 
Her  pallid  forehead  in  the  wave, 
Ere  dawn  rose-paints  the  mountain  tip, 
Ere  light  lies  liquid  on  the  bay 

And  palpitant  above, 
There,  where  my  heart  is,  must  thou  be, 
0  song  of  mine,  in  lieu  of  me, 

And  gently  lay 

Thy  little  rhymes,  all  silver  sweet 
With  tender  greetings,  at  the  feet 


316  A  Birthday  Song 

Of  one  I  love 
And  shall  love  long. 

Haste  thee,  oh,  haste  thee  then,  my  song ! 
Near  is  the  day. 
Out  and  away! 


RECOGNITION 

As  erst  with  thee,  0  Psyche,  so  me-seems 

My  wandering  hands  touched  Love  once  in  my 

dreams. 

Asleep  he  lay.     Around  us  drooped  the  night. 
No  gracious  star-beam  lent  revealing  light. 
I  saw  his  form  not,  nor  his  matchless  grace. 

And  yet,  unlike  to  thee, 
Need  was  not  I  should  look  him  in  the  face. 
By  that  one  touch,  all  in  a  moment's  space, 

I  knew  him  for  a  God! 


TO  THE  CICADA  SEPTEMDECIM 

BURIED  at  moment  of  thy  birth 

Beneath  the  earth ; 
Hid  thy  life  long  afar 
From  glimpse  of  nearest  star; 
Creeping  in  darkness  while  rich  seasons  roll, 
Year  following  year,  above  thy  stunted  soul ; 
Knowing  but  what  the  dead  know  in  the  tomb 

Of  silence  and  of  gloom, 
Dead,  thou  too,  in  thy  present  and  thy  past, 
What  call  doth  reach  thy  deadened  ear  at  last? 
What  instinct  bids  thee  yearn  towards  the  light — 

Thou,  who  hast  known  but  night? 
What  dream  dawns  in  thee,  beautiful  and  bold, 
Of  sylvan  flight  in  noons  of  shimmering  gold, 
Where  trembling  trees  their  fluted  leaves  unfold? 
How  should  such  radiant  dream  be  thine? 
Or  how  canst  thou  divine 
The  counting  of  the  years? 
For  when  their  meted  tale  is  told, 
Lo,  summoned  straightway  from  the  mould 
By  voice  none  other  hears — 

Lo,  born  anew, 

The  dream  thou  could'st  not  dream,  is  true! 
Thy  sluggish  spirit  wakes,  spreads  wings  away, 
And  knows  the  Day. 
318 


To  tHe  Cicada  Septemdecim    319 

So,  when  God's  time  is  done,  may  mystic  call 

On  my  dull  senses  fall. 

So  may  I,  groping  upward  through  life's  night, 
Go  forth,  new- winged,  to  an  undreamed-of  light. 


THE  CLOSED  DOOR 

KNOCK!     Knock!     Bide  not  there  baffled  with 

spent  hand. 

Lo,  here  the  threshold  of  thy  dreamed-of  goal — 
Here,  here,  at  last,  fulfilment  for  thy  soul. 
Oh,  knock!     Oh,  knock!     Take  not  thy  craven 

stand, 

Stilly  consenting,  with  Fate's  beggared  band, 
By  fear  for  ever  mulcted  of  thy  dole. 
Grasp   for   thy  drop   from    Life's   abundant 

bowl — 

Thy  meted  morsel  of  the  Promised  Land! 
The  touch  withheld,  how  shall  the  latch  unlock? 

What  hostel  proffers  to  unchallenging  guest 
Friendship's  full  feast — Wisdom's  consummate 

wine? 
Fool !     For  a  lifted  finger  all  were  thine — 

All,  all  thy  soul  could  compass  at  its  best. 
Knock,  that  the  door  may  open!     Knock,  oh, 
knock ! 


320 


A  DREAM  OF  HAPPINESS 

ONE  sat  and  modelled  a  most  perfect  face; 

And  they  who  passed  him,  marvelling  at  its  grace, 

Vowed  never  mortal  breathed  so  blest  as  he 

Whose  soul  held  dream  of  such  divinity. 

He,  as  he  wrought,  cursed  God. — This  was  his 

fate; 
Conceiving  Heaven,  he  lived  without  its  gate. 


21  321 


ICARUS 

BIND  on  thy  wings,  0  Soul!  Their  eagle  flight 
Shall  lift  thee  to  the  Sun.  For  but  one  hour 
Glory,  thou  too,  in  superhuman  power. 

Enraptured  soar  to  Hope's  extremest  height; 

Confront  unblenching  the  supernal  light; 
Forget  thine  insufficiency  of  dower, 
And  quicken  all  thy  being  into  flower 

Ere  blasted  by  intolerable  Might. 

What  though  thou  perish  in  the  self-same  breath 

That  numbers  thee  mid  Heaven's  effulgent  host? 
What  though  thy  victory's  award  be  death, 

If,  dying,  thou  attain  thine  uttermost? 

Were  not  that  brief  immortal  moment  worth 
A  wingless  lifetime  on  the  level  Earth? 


322 


INTO  MY  LIFE  SHE  CAME 

INTO  my  life  she  came 

One  golden  day, 
Softly  as  blossoms  come 

Into  the  May. 

I  only  knew  that  she  was  there 
By  the  fragrance  in  the  air. 

Into  my  heart  she  came 

One  day  of  days, 
Stilly,  as  on  night's  dark 

God's  stars  outblaze. 
I  only  knew  that  she  was  there 
By  the  glory  everywhere. 


323 


LIKE  A  GARDEN  OF  MARVELLOUS  MID 
SUMMER  BLOOMS 

LIKE  a  garden  of  marvellous  midsummer  blooms 
In  a  tangle  of  twilights  and  sunfloods  and 

glooms — 

A  riot  of  raptures  in  scarlet  and  blue 
With    blisses    of    purple    and     gold    breaking 

through — 

A  temple  to  passion,  with  mossbanks  for  stairs, 
And  colours  for  anthems,  and  perfumes  for 

prayers, 

Where  all  longings,  all  dreams,  all  desires  that  be 
Exhale  in  the  breath  of  each  blossoming  tree, — 
Such,  O  Love,  is  my  heart's  love — my  heart's 

love  for  thee ! 

Like  a  mist,  fallen  soft  as  a  sleep  o'er  the  land, 
A  peace  all-compelling,  too  vast  to  withstand, 
Wherein  dreams  lie  undreamed  and  petitions 

unspoken — 

An  impalpable  hush  from  Nirvana  evoken, 
Holding  passion  and  sense  in  divinest  control 
As  by  touch  of  God's  finger  laid  white  on  the 

soul — 

324 


Garden  of  Midsximmer  Blooms    325 

A  holiest  calm,  a  supreme  ecstasy 
Where  Heaven  begins  and  Earth  ceases  to  be — 
Such,  0  Love,  is  my  soul's  love — my  soul's  love 
for  thee. 


CAGED 

IT  was  born  behind  bars,  but  it  knew  it  had  wings, 
And  it  felt  God  had  meant  it  for  happier  things  ; 
And  it  sang  of  the  joys  that  it  never  had  known — 
Of  fetterless  flights  over  fields  flower-strewn ; 
Of  the  green  of  the  forest  and  gold  of  the  wheat : 
Of  the  thrill  of  the  tree-top,  just  touched  by  its 

feet; 

Of  the  feel  of  a  lily-leaf,  brushed  by  its  breast, 
And  the  splash  of  a  raindrop,  caught  on  its 

crest. 

It  sang  of  the  beauty,  the  rapture  of  flying, 
The  palpitant  air  to  its  heart-beats  replying, 
Naught  over,  naught  under,  save  limitless  blue 
And  the  music  of  wing-strokes,  rhythmic  and 

true. 

It  sang,  and  men  said  that  its  song  was  good  ; 
But  not  one  understood. 

Then  a  bird  of  the  fields  they  brought  in  from  a 

snare, 

And  a  day  and  a  night  held  it  prisoner  there. 
And  a  night  and  a  day,  unbelieving,  distraught, 
With  impassible  fate  for  its  freedom  it  fought, 
326 


Caged  327 

Though  it  bled  at  the  breast  blindly  beating  the 

bars 
As  if  strength  of  desire  should  force  way  to  the 

stars ; 
Till  men  pitied,  and  said:    "It  was  free  its  life 

long; 

Who  could  bid  it  endure  but  a  day  of  such  wrong  ? ' ' 
And  they  flung  wide  the  door,  and  the  bird, 

flashing  through, 
Swept  away,  like  a  leaf  in  a  gale,  from  their  view. 

Then  the  other,  behind  the  closed  bars  of  its  fate, 
Once  again  sang  its  heart  out — its  need,  co-create, 
Of  the  broad  and  the  boundless.  In  passionate 

song 
It  besought  men  to  right  for  one  day  its  life's 

wrong — 

To  bestow  for  a  day,  or  for  one  only  hour, 
The  leave  to  make  proof  of  its  God-given  power ; 
For  one  hour  only  to  float  on  free  wings 
In  the  world  where  its  soul  lived — the  world  of 

best  things, 

Of  commensurate  effort  and  gain,  of  desire, 
Unlinked  from  despair,   mounting  higher  and 

higher 

Till  lost  in  attainment — the  world  of  clear  visions, 
True  measures,  high  aims,  and  untrammelled 

decisions — 

The  world  God  had  made  it  for.  So  its  song  rose, 
Ecstatic,  tumultuous,  thrilled  with  wild  woes 


328  Caged 

And  delicious  complainings,  until  the  last  note 
Broke  off  in  an  exquisite  cry  in  its  throat. 
And  men  listened,  and  said  that  the  song  was 
good. 

But  not  one  understood. 


MY  FRIEND 

WITH  a  forehead  serene  and  the  gait  of  a  queen 

She  is  threading  life's  sorrowful  maze. 
Of  her  blessed  evangel  is  none  other  sign 
Than  that  lift  of  her  head,  and  a  courage  divine 
In  the  exquisite  cakn  of  her  gaze. 

But  to  walk  where  she  leads  is  to  hold  by  high 

creeds ; 

To  feel  stirrings  of  wings  in  the  soul ; 
To  make  spurs  of  one's  fetters  and  moons  of 

midnights ; 

Of  dim  deserts  make  Pisgahs,   of  falls  eagle- 
flights 
That  shall  sweep  at  one  stretch  to  the  goal. 

And  remembering  her  is  afar  to  recur 
To  vows  made  by  her  side  unafraid; 

To  grow  strong  with  her  strength;    to  be  girt 
with   her  grace, 

And  to  pattern  one's  soul  by  the  look  in  her  face, 
To  receive  Truth's  supreme  accolade. 


329 


IN  AN  ECLIPSE 

WHENE'ER  in  the  course  of  our  daytime  of  doing, 

While  high  overhead  stands  the  sun, 
The  forced  night  of  inaction,  our  footsteps  pur 
suing, 

Bids  halt,  though  our  best  be  undone, 
Oh,  then,  if  we  faint  not  for  grief  or  surprise, 
All  the  stars  that  we  steer  by  will  show  in  God's 
skies. 


330 


REMEMBRANCE 

IT  lies  on  our  life  like  the  stars  on  the  sea, 

Like  dew  on  the  face  of  the  flower, 
Like  shade  on  the  sun-dazzled  stretch  of  the  lea, 
Like  snow  on  the  storm-beaten  boughs  of  the  tree, 
Like  light  on  the  wings  of  the  shower. 

It  comes  as  comes  faith  to  the  nun  on  her  knees, 

Or  day-dawn  to  timorous  sky. 
It  thrills  through  our  souls  as  in  summer  the 

breeze 
Descends  on  the  slumbering  green  of  the  trees, 

And  stirs  them  to  trembling  reply. 

From  iris-hued  realms  of  the  shadowy  past, 

Its  wonderful  flight  it  comes  winging, 
With  odours  of  blossoms  that  drooped  in  the 

blast, 
With  star-beams  that  vanished  when  skies  were 

o'ercast, 
And  music  that  hushed  in  the  singing. 

And  scars  of  old  sorrows,  ghosts  of  dead  pain 
That  left  us  all  faint  and  weak  hearted, 


332  Remembrance 

With  droppings  of  tears  that  were  once  as  hot 

rain, 

These  too  doth  it  bring  us,  and  bringing  again, 
Reveals  that  their  sting  is  departed. 

It  links  the  pale  past  and  the  present  in  one 

With  ladders  of  vacillant  light, 
Along  which,  dim-footed  and  opal-robed,  run 
Hand  in  hand  with  to-day  all  the  days  that  are 
done, 

Crowned  each  with  its  crown  of  delight. 

It  cleaves  with  a  transient  rainbow  ray 

The  clouds  of  Earth's  tempest-torn  places, 
And  does  for  us,  living,  what  Death  does  one  day, 
When  bending  above  us  he  kisses  away 
Life's  woe  from  our  weariful  faces. 


SEMELE 

GREAT  Jove,    great    god  of  gods,   awful   and 

absolute, 

If  Jove  indeed  thou  be,  cast  off  this  disrepute 
Of  human  likeness,  this  poor  mask  of  mortal 

youth. 
Put  on  thy  godliness.     Proclaim  thee  Jove  in 

truth! 
Robed  in  tempestuous  pomp,  the  lightning  for 

thy  crown, 
Rend  the  obscuring  skies !     As  king  of  kings  come 

down, 

Thy  sovereignty  about  thee  like  a  living  flame, 
And  woo  me  as  gods  woo,  to  my  resplendent 

shame! 

Grant  me  this  only  grace.     Behold,  I  give  thee 

all, 
As  blossoms  give  their  bloom  at  summer's  secret 

call, 
As    birds   outpour    their   songs    at    morning's 

signalled  light, 

As  stars  first  wax  aglow  at  whisper  of  the  night. 
333 


334  Semele 

Beneath  thy  feet  my  throne  is.     Heaven  is  where 

thou  art. 
Thy  pulses'  feeblest  count  is  a  blood-beat  of  my 

heart. 
I  breathe  but  by  thy  breath.     I  am  but  what 

thou  wilt, 

My  being  lost  in  thee  as  wine  in  wine  is  spilt. 
Then  match  me  love  for  love,  or  grant  me  only 

this—' 
To  know  my  soul  exchanged  for  an  immortal's 

kiss! 

Oh ,  see !    Oh ,  hark ! — A  crash !    An  all-devouring 

blaze! 
Almighty  Jove,  'tis  thou!    And  Death  around 

thee  plays! 

Lover  divinely  awful,  oh,  aloof!  aloof! 

Of  a  weak  earthly  loom  is  spun  my  heart's  frail 

woof. 
In  mercy  veil  thyself.     Naught  but  an  eagle's 

eye 

May  look  upon  the  sun's  unshadowed  majesty. 
Give  me  not  all  I  asked !  Thy  full  magnificence 
Reserve  for  Heaven  alone.  Beware  Earth's 

impotence. 
Smitten  with  too  much  splendour  as  with  too 

much  pain 
My  spirit  slips  its  leash.     Oh,  vain  prayer  prayed 

in  vain! 


Semele  335 

Thy  thunders  drown  my  cries  in  their  stupendous 

roll. 
The  flaming  of  thy  passion  sears  my  shrinking 

soul. 
Thy  fires  have  wrapped  me  round  as  in  a  burning 

shroud. 

I  die — I  die  of  thee!  0  lover,  lightning-browed, 
Withdraw  thy  glory !  Lo !  I  sink  upon  the  sod ! 
Love  but  as  mortals  love!  Love  not  as  loves  a 

god! 


THE  BEND  OP  THE  ROAD 

OH,  that  bend  of  the  road,  how  it  baffles,  yet 

beckons ! 
What  lies  there  beyond — less  or  more  than  heart 

reckons? 
What  ends,  what  begins,  there  where  sight  fails 

to  follow? 
Does  the  road  climb  to  heaven,  or  dip  to  the 

hollow? 

What  glory  of  greenness,  what  lights  interlacing, 
What  softness  of  shadow,  what  bounty  of  spacing, 
What  refreshment  of  change — aye,  what  beauty 

Elysian 

The  sweep  of  that  curve  may  deny  to  the  vision ! 
Oh,  my  soul  yearns  for  sight!  Oh,  my  feet  long 

to  follow, 
Swift -winged  with  sweet  hope  as  with  wings  of  a 

swallow ! 
Though  lonely  the  way,  void  of  song,  void  of 

laughter, 
I  must  go  to  the  end — I  must  know  what  comes 

after. 


336 


THE  HIDDEN  BROOK 

So  flows  my  love  along  your  life,  0  friend — 

A  whispered  song,  with  neither  break  nor  end, 

Outbreathed  wherever  your  dear  footsteps  tend. 

Albeit  you  listen  not,  are  not  aware 

Of  any  music  throbbing  on  the  air, 

Still  my  full  heart  goes  singing  to  you  there. 

Content,  although  the  way  be  long  to  run 
And  closed  for  ever  from  the  moon  and  sun, 
With  emerald  dusks  and  opal  dawns  all  one — 

Content,  content,  if  Heaven  but  grant  this  meed, 
That  you  may  drink  in  any  hour  of  need. 


337 


A  LAST  MESSAGE 

DEAR,  I  lie  dying,  and  thou  dost  not  know — 
Thou,  whom  of  all  the  world  I  love  the  best ! — 
And  wilt  not  know,  until  I  lie  at  rest 

With  lips  for  ever  closed,  and  lids  dropped  low. 

O  Love — O  Love — I  can  not  leave  thee  so! — 
Can  not,  still  undivined,  still  unexpressed, 
Unheeding  to  the  last  my  heart's  behest, 

Dumb  into  the  Eternal  Silence  go ! 

What  reck  I  in  this  moment  of  disgrace? 

Albeit  the  whole  world  hear  what  my  heart  saith, 
I  cry  aloud  to  thee  across  all  space. 

To  thee — to  thee — I  call  with  my  last  breath ! 
O  Love,  lean  forth  from  out  thy  dwelling  place ! 

Listen,  and  learn — I  loved  thee,  Love,  till  death. 


338 


IN  THE  FORUM  OP  JUSTICE 

PASS.     Pass.     Pass.     Thou  hast  had  thine  hour 
To  sow  in  and  reap.     Is  it  thistle  for  flower? 
'T  is  the  seed  is  at  fault,  e'en  though  Jove  stayed 

the  shower ; 
Make  way  for  thy  comrade  with  double  thy 

dower. 

Halt.  Halt.  Halt.  There  was  given  thee  grace 
To  begin  with  the  best  and  their  records  efface 
Had  thy  sandals  been  winged.  Step  down  from 

the  race. 
One  swifter  than  thou  art  would  run  in  thy  place. 

Cease.     Cease.     Cease.     Thou    hast    had    thy 

chance. 

Must  a  Pallas  attend  thee,  to  ward  off  mischance? 
Let  fall  thy  vain  weapon.  A  thousand  advance 
To  rush  on  and  win  with  thy  pitiful  lance. 


339 


FATE 

A  WIDE  bare  field  'neath  blinding  skies, 
Where  no  tree  grows,  no  shadow  lies, 
Where  no  wind  stirs,  where  no  bee  flies. 

A  roadway,  even,  blank  and  white, 

That  swerves  not  left,  that  swerves  not  right, 

That  stretches,  changeless,  out  of  sight. 

Footprints  midway  adown  its  dust; 
Two  lagging,  leaden  feet  that  just 
Trail  on  and  on,  because  they  must. 


340 


TO  MY  FATHER 

As  the  poorest  may  borrow  some  treasure 
To  adorn  what  is  meagre  or  bare, 

So  a  memory  loved  beyond  measure 
I  lay  on  my  book,  with  the  prayer, 

Its  dear  presence  all  fault  may  efface, 

And  a  lingering  touch  of  its  grace 
May  ennoble  my  words  unaware. 


itchfiel 


Collect 


t^t^t — 
d  poeme 


95' 


L776 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


YC159508 


